Softly Say Goodbye
by SasukeBlade
Summary: They didn't save the world, but they were heroes in their own way. A long look at one of Tipa's many caravans. -I thought that together, nothing could break us.-
1. The First Lesson

I do not own Final Fantasy Crystal Chronicles. These are not meant to be long chapters, merely glimpses at a caravan. A chronicle, if you will.

* * *

The First Lesson

I'm sure the world was as beautiful once as it is now, long before miasma and monsters and terrified people crouching within the crystal's shadow. I'm sure the sky was blue and the grass was green and even the Yukes had smiles on their faces. I'm sure there was something worth living for in that world.

I was a caravanner. You look at me now as if I have gone senile, but know that I am far from it. In my glory days I could swing a weapon just as well as anyone, and oh, those were the days.

You wouldn't understand that now. Miasma is only a myth to you, monsters rare and exciting beings that only appear once every few seasons or so. You've never experienced a time when the world was a frightening place, where grandmothers were slain by goblins and children suffocated in their sleep because there was no myrrh for the crystal that year. Don't look at me as if I've suggested something awful. Yes it was horrible, but that was the way it was. At the time, we didn't know you could change it, though there were countless who tried. Countless.

They were the greats, the ones who tried. De Nam the brave, Amidatty the Eccentric, the Black Knight. I knew them before the titles. Yes, even Queen Fiona, when she was still only a princess. One day I will take you to meet her, and then you can ask if your old gran really was one of those fabled caravanners.

Go ahead and roll your eyes. You've finally joined the realm of the teenage years, of course you know everything. After all, what I know of the world has only come from battle after battle, desperate save after desperate save, and year after year of endless searching and constant wandering. I have seen all that is despicable and evil and horrible in this world, and I have seen all that is good and pure and wonderful. I have lived a thousand lifetimes, I have died a thousand deaths, I have followed a thousand caravans, yet none will follow me. Go ahead and roll your eyes.

In the end, child, you're going to realize something. In the end, I am nothing and no one. I am everything and everyone. I am anyone who has lifted a blade to do battle and anyone who has lived in peace all their lives. I am someone you have known all your life and someone you have passed but once on the long road home. You see, in the end it doesn't matter who you are.

You know my story, though you may not realize it. It has been told a thousand times around the campfire, beside the hearth, before the battle. It is used for both warning and inspiration. It is the story of the lessons that take a lifetime to learn.

The things I know you would do well to learn also.

You don't have to be a hero to change the world. You just have to be willing to fight for something.

That was the first lesson I learned, one gifted to me by my own comrades. For they were heroes, in their own way. They will not be remembered in songs or tales, in legends or myths. They were ordinary, and in time I will be the only one who remembers them.

But you will remember me, and so we live on.


	2. The Death of Trin Mar

Trin Mar is gasping for breath, each desperate reach for air more pitiful than the next, and though Kin presses both paws to his chest in an effort to focus the Cure Spell, something tells me he won't live.

We've fought the malboro several times now, the mushroom forest a regular stop on our way to Marr's Pass. Each time the creature gets stronger, but so do we. We have the experience of years on the caravan under our belts, and between us enough artifacts to become traveling merchants. By now we must know every trick the sentient plant has.

He was being stupid, I guess is the only way to put it. I don't want to dishonor the dead (he's not dead yet, I know, but the wet gurgle behind me and the soft swearing of our Yuke healer say he will be soon) but it's the only way I can cope right now. There's blood all over the ground, and ahead of us Sinna and Patrick fight on. They're risking their lives taking the time to combine a fire spell, but what does it matter at this point? I'm only standing guard in case the malboro manages to dredge up more minions. Though sentient, he is not intelligent, and it was pure bad luck for Trin.

Bad luck is something Tipa seems to specialize in these days.

There is a strange rattling sound behind me as the wounded Selkie tries to draw in air, and I almost draw the sign against evil before I stop myself. I am no superstitious, wet behind the ears caravanner. Though Kin is the most senior, I am not far behind.

I feel useless standing here, but I have my orders and I will not break them. Our healer cannot be harmed, and though I want to take out every single one of my troubles on our current opponent duty must come first. Instead, I let my friends step into the thick, dank air beyond the chalice and breathe poison for me.

In my head the thought is only slightly bitter.

The twins are excellent spell casters, so what for me would emerge as a mere Fira becomes a Firaga in their capable hands. The malboro dies with a roar of pain, fire eating away at him.

I cannot imagine the pain that would come with dying in a fire, though I have to wonder how much worse suffocating is, choking on your own blood with every gasp of air you pull into your aching lungs.

Behind me Trin Mar breathes his last breath. I cannot turn to look.

I want to be able to believe that he died with something less pained than a grimace for an expression. If I am to tell his fiancée the normal lies of a heroic death, then I want to be able to sleep at night without the image of his sightless eyes staring at the mushroom canopy above us haunting me in my dreams.

Somehow, I think that image will haunt me anyway.

* * *

Lian Cre is beautiful when she cries. 

A Selkie like myself, Trin Mar's widow is the epitome of perfection within my race. Cunning and beautiful, her face does not even turn blotchy as streams of crystalline tears cascade down her cheeks.

It is so perfect that I can't help but wonder if it's all an act.

Trin was a member of our caravan for five years. Sometime in that half of a decade, he courted Tipan newcomer Lian Cre. At first we had laughed at him, asking him how he'd managed to get a girl in what could only add up to less than a week of courtship.

No relationship should be built on such a basis. That's my belief anyway. How can you love someone who is so far away for so long? Who you only see one day a year? How do you love the man when all you have is the memory?

For all that I, too, cared for my fellow caravanner, it is not my place to say these things. My beliefs were not shared by Trin. Maybe letters can keep love alive. Maybe she really does miss him.

_For one day a year_, the bitter and one-comrade-less part of me says._She misses him for one day a year. You miss him for the rest of your life._

I did not love the only male Selkie in our caravan, handsome and exotic as he was, he was only ever this girl's. But I was his friend, and I can see the suspicion forming in her eyes as I tell her how her lover died.

Though my retelling is the truth, this is the diluted version. I do not tell her of the rattling breaths, of the way he'd walked so senselessly into that whipping tentacle's path. I will not speak of crushed lungs, smashed ribs, of the way Kin pounded on his broken chest in desperation though we all knew Trin Mar was beyond help. And never will I mention the way Sinna went so quiet and still, or the way Patrick cried, or the way I felt sobs choking my throat. Some matters are too private to be spoken of, even for his fiancee.

"Did you care for him?" she asks when I am done describing a lie. And at this moment, I cannot bring myself to be more disgusted by her than I already am._This is what I fight to save_, I think. Nothing like a little discouragement to add to the growing urge to take the chalice, set out on our next year, and never come back.

"In all the ways that matter, and none of the ways that you think." I don't know why they always have me report to our fallen comrade's loved ones. I always seem to make a botched job of it somehow.

She looks at me the way you would look at a particularly large and disgusting insect. If only she could squash me.

Too bad I don't think she's ever held a weapon in her lifetime, not with those delicate hands.


	3. The Caravan Leaves

I wake before dawn, though this is the one day a year I could sleep beyond the rising of the sun. The sky is gray and the small world of Tipa is quiet. Even without sunlight the crystal gleams, light coming through the cracks in the shutters.

Beside me Yis Dah snuffles in her sleep and clutches tighter to her pillow. I run a hand through her purple tresses, smiling at the short cut. She'd worn it longer last year. My sister has grown well in my absence; I wish I could say it was due to my influence.

We are alchemists at heart. Raised in a home where there was always some form of experimentation afoot, my powers of observation are second to none. By the way her eyelids flicker, I know my sister is dreaming. By the way she grasps the pillow, I know it is not frightening. By the way she bounces through life, I know she will be all right.

I am the middle sister, the dutiful one. Across from us on the other mat sleeps Sia Noh. She is both the eldest and the most feminine of our family. While Yis is what the boys would call 'cute,' Sia has never been anything less than 'beautiful'. And I have never been judged beyond 'grim.'

My fingers tickle the shell of Yis's ear one last time before I prepare for the rest of my day.

The air is filled with the scent of salt and the waves rush to shore to crash one by one. Sand shifts beneath my boots as my eyes follow the tide through its eternal cycle. They say Selkies emerged from the sea, and in these moments I can almost believe it.

A soft shush of a footstep behind me. Lian Cre, mussed and lovely, looks at the water as well, arms wrapped around her body as if to protect herself. Or maybe to hold something back.

She notices my gaze. Only yesterday we had met, and already I sense the dislike emanating from her guarded pose. _We are not friends_, her body language tells me. I can only hope my posture implies indifference in reply.

"I am your new caravanner." Out of all the words she could have strung together (millions of possibilities, my alchemist's mind babbles unhelpfully) those were ones I would never have guessed at.

As much as the urge to scoff is pressing, a more civil tone is necessary to prevent her from perhaps clawing my eyes out. "Shouldn't you be discussing that with Kin?"

Kindryth couldn't save Trin Mar either. I wonder if she hates him as well.

"It is already decided." Her tone brooks no argument as she turns away. Not that I would argue; she looks like the type that condones murder. And I am not worth her time any longer. It is as plain as the hair that swishes gently across her back as she marches away.

Six years ago I volunteered to enter the Tipa caravan in my sister's place. Of all the things in my life, it was the one I had never regretted. Yet the sight of the arrogant woman's retreating back disappearing along the path brings to mind the old adage of counting ones crops before they sprout. I might regret this.

Later, as we linger before the entrance to the village saying goodbyes, I manage to catch a moment alone with Kin.

"You've got to be joking with me," I hiss at our leader, invading the Yuke's personal space to the point of rudeness. I know contact bothers the tribe, and it's such a wonderful tool of persuasion. "When did you become a comedian?"

Patrick is eyeing us from down the path while Sinna folds into a crouch, speaking softly to their youngest sister. For the ranchers to give up two of their children is nigh unthinkable to me. My own parents could barely part with one.

The high collar of his blue jerkin is stiff beneath my hands as I yank the helmeted face closer to my own height. I am not tall, but it is not the size of the warrior that matters, rather the fight within him. I have plenty of fight in me, and Kin knows it.

Paws far larger than my own hands unhook my claw like grip. The Yuke could snap my wrists with ease, there is strength enough there, and I quiet.

"We need another caravanner, and we need someone we can train to carry on when we retire." For each calmly stated word, I entertain several fantasies involving me throttling the leader of our modest caravan. 'Down to three caravanners?' the elders would ask, and I'd nod and do my best to look pitiful. 'Oh you poor dears, we'll keep Lian Cre here where she won't be able to murder you in your sleep.'

Somehow the thought is non sequitur, but the idea of sleeping easily appeals to me. "She's not experienced, she doesn't know anything, she's a liability--"

Our leader holds up one of those massive appendages. "Attend," he says, and I straighten, feeling each bruise of the past year as if they still shown purple and yellow against my skin. "You, too, were once everything you accuse her of being now, Zin Del." And damn him, he's right.

The sky is blue and the sun is above us by the time we bypass the rest of the farewells. There is nothing to use to refute Kin's statement. Senior member now, two years behind Kin and two ahead of the twins, once I had been as green as he had claimed. Though his logic is sound, that doesn't mean I have to like it. Reasoning and logical thought are not skills I claim to possess.

Like all new caravanners, and most of the experienced ones, I still chomp at the bit. I want to be on the road as soon as possible. Every moment wasted is a moment we might need in our search for myrrh. By the time we finish all our goodbyes and actually set off I am fairly dancing in my haste. Sinna shakes her head of auburn hair at me and takes it upon herself to guide our poor beast of burden across the rickety wood.

It takes some self-control not to glare. Clavats always feel the need to be self-righteously helpful.

Still, each creak of the wagon's wheels soothes me slightly more as we move away from the village. Soon I am laughing at Patrick's newest ribald joke, soon I am running ahead of the caravan (but never too far) whooping my glee at the sight of the open road, soon I am feeling someone focus their killing intent on me, and for once it is not our fearless leader.

Despite the eyes I can feel drilling into my back, a skip enters my step and a little tune escapes my lips in a whistle. It's a common enough song, and the rest join in. Our newest member predictably makes no sound.

Though the mood is light there is no one to take the tenor part. With Kin as our bass, Patrick on baritone, myself holding a soothing low alto and Sinna taking a beautiful soprano our harmonies weave around this gap easily. While to the untrained ear nothing is amiss, to me there is a note of longing. It sounds as if our voices are futilely searching for what was lost.

Maybe it would be more reasonable to say we were trying sound out the edges of this new gap in our world. But then again, being reasonable is for the Yukes.


	4. Into the Mines

The Mine of Carthuriges is not frightening because it is dark, it is frightening because it is light.

The torchlight flickers on the walls, elongating and distorting shadows until each look at the darkness extending from your feet shows a new monster. The gruff laughter of the orcs as they raise their spiked clubs is menacing beyond what one would believe. You live in shadows, you want to say to them. You live in a miserable world. Why are you laughing?

They're laughing because you're their newest toy. They're laughing because they think they can kill you. And you must not show fear.

Sinna has the chalice this time, which is the usual except it's not anymore, or it shouldn't be. The newest caravanner always carries the chalice and is thus protected the most. It should be Lian Cre struggling with that weight, learning the feel of sore muscles and strength, but instead she flanks me, racket at the ready.

She has a bruise on her left cheek, and there is sweat dripping from her jaw. Is it the heat of the underground world or the fear of the edge to her left? Her lips are forming around words, and the low murmur barely even carries to my ears. "What crazy bastard thought to mine this?"

"And you haven't even seen Conall Curach," I say, ironic. It is too loud in the near silence, but I am ignoring the startled eyes she and the others turn on me. Few Selkies mention the place, the land where our gods forsook us, where our people went mad. Not forbidden, but better left forgotten.

The Selkies had touched the stars, once, and the world knew that we would never reach such great heights again.

"Are we ready?" Patrick is cool as ever, despite the sweat matting his own mop of hair. He wipes his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt, grimacing in spite of the false cheer in his voice. "The big man is up ahead."

We veterans send surreptitious glances around the group. Someone has to advise the newcomer. Someone has to play guardian this round. "Not me," I say, in answer to Kin's unspoken question. I stood helpless during the fight with the malboro. Never again.

Sinna raises a finger, her way of volunteering, as she leans over to our newbie. "Kin and Pat can combo this time."

This isn't the greatest strategy. I'm lousy at spell casting all around, but excellent in a melee. Patrick _is_ one of our better spell casters, but definitely our best generalist. Kin is our healer, Sinna born to be a mage with her talents at long distance combat, and Trin was once another generalist and our tactician. Gods only know what Lian Cre will take to.

Kin should not be one of our main combatants. He and Sinna should be combining magicite spells, with Patrick and I drawing the attention of our foe. Without Trin's sharp mind and eye for the overview, we are setting up for failure.

"No," I say, regretting each word my traitorous mouth releases. "Lian Cre can stick with me. I'll go close quarters and she can watch my back, take care of his minions and the like." She's as likely to stab me in the back, but this way Sinna is freed for casting, in turn freeing Patrick to do what he does best. It's for the best.

She's glaring at me, our new Selkie, clenching at her racket as I move toward her. "I don't need your help," she hisses, and had she hackles I'm certain they would be up.

I sigh. "It's just common sense." I don't like this anymore than her, but at least I'm not so obvious in my dislike. "If we throw you in the river before you know how to swim you'll drown."

Though her pretty lips purse, she's at least paying attention. "Keep some food close to the top of your pack," I instruct. My own pack has already been prepared. "You may need the energy, and it's best to have it close at hand. You won't be casting, so don't bother with any magicite." The others have moved away from us now, checking their own weapons and taking stock. "You probably won't take too many hits, but if you do make sure Kin knows it. He's good at what he does, but he can't see everything."

The seriousness of what we are about to undertake seems to have reached her, for she frowns. This is how her man died, this is how she ended up here in the first place. "So what exactly am I supposed to do?"

"Just watch out for the minions." I am gratified by her recognition of the consequences here. If she can put aside this grudge for the sake of the caravan, we could at least achieve some form of peace. "They're the boss monster's friends. Kind of like the goons we've already been fighting."

She hums a slight acknowledgment, unwilling to sink to a verbal one. "So I just attack them?"

I incline my head in a nod, idly checking my own equipment as we converse. I am used to taking care of our new members, having played guardian for both of the twins until Sinna's talent for magic placed her under Kin's tutelage and Patrick's abilities under Trin Mar's. This should not be any different after all.

"How?"

It's right then that I realize this might not be as simple as I'd hoped. "What do you mean, _how_?" I can barely choke out the words past my growing horror. "You don't know how to fight?" I was right, right about her not having ever wielded a weapon. Curse it all, this newbie is greener than the grass!

"I've never… it was _his_," Lian's beckoning at the rawhide binding at the base of her own racket, and I am filled with outrage and sympathy. She'd stepped up in her fiance's place, something so foolish and courageous it took my breath away. How on earth had she thought to survive?

Sudden, sickening clarity. Maybe she hadn't.

"All right," I say suddenly, voice automatically lowered further in an attempt to convince myself along with my new charge. A conspiratorial whisper now leaves my lips. "Look, just stay a few paces behind me. If anything comes at you, just get to me. I'll protect you."

Damn that sympathy. This woman hates me, absolutely loathes me, and I'm _helping_ her! The cursed widow could get us all killed, and I'm_ helping_ _her fool my comrades_. I've lost my mind, apparently. It's the only excuse.

There is shock on her face and it mirrors the shock within myself. I don't even know why I am doing this, but there is something about her courage, something about this woman who is standing terrified beside me as we rejoin our caravan. I can feel her hands shaking, brushing the loose fabric of my skirt.

Kin looks over us, nodding his approval at the look of determination on our faces. Masks for us both, covering fear on her part and disquiet on mine. What had possessed this girl to even volunteer for caravan duty?

Duty. The word remains in my thoughts as we march into the throne room of the orc king. It remains as the creature calls on his minions, remains as I fight a quick two sided war. Thankfully our comrades are quite distracted in their own tasks, enough to not see Lian Cre's inaction. Gods help the girl, I'll train her until her arms fall off if we survive this. Gods help me, I need to survive this.

Duty. The word is in every breath as I slam my racket into the orc king, striking for his kidneys and other vitals. He is facing me now, the behemoth unknowingly presenting an opening for Patrick, who hamstrings him in a focus attack. I hear a cry from behind me, and turn to slam my weapon over the skull of another minion. He folds over with a grunt, and I return to my previous task.

Duty. The orc king has lost, and he knows it. I see the glaring eyes narrow further, notice the light he is gathering to him. A handy spell, the self-destruct. Even handier that his has quite the radius. Is it his own duty to carry out this casting? Did he swear an oath to do so, if his realm was threatened?

"Everybody back!" Kin calls, finishing a cure spell on Patrick. The large cut on his arm clots, scabs over, and turns to new, pink skin before our very eyes. Then we are all running, rushing for one of the room's corners. A minion follows, forgotten in the retreat.

"What's going on?" Her face is not so beautiful anymore, streaked with sweat and grime, an ugly lilac blossoming on her cheek. "What's he doing?"

"Self-destruct," Sinna grunts as she makes an abrupt turn. The flat of her sword blade slams into the orc goon's stomach, but she does not pause at the impact. Her first strike carries into another as she turns the blade, a belly cut, and brings it back toward his unprotected shoulders in a downward chop.

It would be a paralyzing strike on any other creature, an easy kill, but the blade lodges into the bone of the orc's shoulder. And he is too tough, or perhaps too stupid to let that stop him. The laughter I hate so very much springs from his mouth as the spiked club is raised over his head with the uninjured arm.

In a blur of motion Patrick parries the blow, and he is truly something to behold as he slides toward the creature, blade turned to stab straight into the heart.

The strike is true, and the orc drops. Both twins tug their swords free, ignoring the blood that drips to the ground in favor of their shields. Normally the self destruct does not reach to the corners, but it never hurts to be prepared.

We are huddled together, the five of us, and it is like old times despite the way she clutches to my arm. Trin Mar was never that frightened. Is it possible that the grudge is gone? I did not like her at first, but something is changing within me. Something that started when I first thought of the word 'duty.'

The kind of courage it must take to walk to a certain death. The kind of heroism to stand firm despite her fear. The kind of valor to do one's duty beyond all reason. The kind of loyalty.

Trin Mar had chosen well. Not that it made a difference anymore.

In the end, it is Lian Cre who carries the chalice to the myrrh tree. The muscles in her arms are outlined against the weight, yet she does not waver as she places it on the pedestal. Her mouth stretches into a contented smile as she steps back and joins the rest of us; I feel my mouth forming an answering grin.

"You idiot," I whisper on the way out, lagging behind so as to speak to her. "Thinking running out and dying would somehow make a difference."

And despite my mock anger, the seriousness of her face and the honesty of her reply I will never forget.

"I was strong then," she said. "When I didn't care. But I was even stronger when I did, when I wanted to live more than anything."

And later, after we had gone silent, when we had emerged into the sun.

"You taught me that. You wanted me to live." A pause. "My thanks."

* * *

We caravanners are heroes by anyone's definition. We are people who give up their lives in order to help others, yet the most important part of that is that we are people.

Lian Cre had not joined us out of the goodness of her heart. She hadn't really intended to save anybody. And yet her actions had just helped many. Her actions had just helped to postpone death for an entire village. Her motivations were not traditional, but did that make her actions any less worthy?

As I had unknowingly taught her strength, she had unknowingly taught me as well. We are all only people, in the end. People are not always driven by morality. But it is people, ordinary people like us who change the world. Patrick and Sinna may fight so that their younger sister has a world to grow up in, Kindryth may lead us not only for our own good but in pursuit of knowledge, I might battle because it's all I know, and Lian Cre may fight because it's all she has left, yet all the same our deeds are heroic.

And while the heroes of myth are wonderful, while they fight for good and banish evil and live and die by their word, they are only myths. Sometimes the people who really change the world are the ones who sit beside you at the campfire each night, heroes of legend or not.

* * *

Patrick, gallant as ever, makes the first toast to our newest caravanner. "First blood!"

Normally we save the celebrations for the particularly easy runs, for the jobs well done. Sometimes we save them for the days we barely make it out alive. But today, as average a battle as any other, will have to do. Our greenie has survived her first blood and that is something worth celebrating.

We raise our tumblers together, the firelight shining a warm amber glow through the glass. The glow seems to stay even as it travels down my throat, warming my belly.

"To our caravan!" Sinna calls the next, a smile playing about her lips as the brandy loosens her tongue. The words are barely out of her mouth when I call the next.

"To members past, present, and future!"

"To Tipa!"

"To all caravanners everywhere."

The toasts go on and on, growing progressively sillier after every mouthful. And despite the trials of the day, my heart feels as light and bright as the future seems right then. We made it. We will make it.

In those moments, the world is as beautiful as they say it is.


	5. The Second Lesson

Now that I have reached the end of my life, I know that in truth my life was unnecessary. Had I not lived the world would have continued to turn, the sun would have risen and set each day exactly the same as it did for me, and children would have been born and raised just as they were. Another person would have filled my place in Tipa's caravan, and the lives my own life touched may very well have gone on just the same as they did with or without my path's intersection. I know this because, in the end, the majority of us never truly matter to anyone but the people around us.

And yet, there were moments. Choices, really. Spaces of time where the decision of one affected the outcome of many. Looking back, there were times when it was I who made the choice that ended or saved lives. None of those choices were easy. I have never _not_ looked back and wondered 'What if?'

We were tired. It was the only reason we stopped there, really. Normally the caravans forgo Tida in favor of the much larger Alfitaria, but we'd just passed through the miasma stream and the day's journey had exhausted us all. Such a stupid reason, really. So what if Patrick wasn't feeling well? We could have pressed on a few more leagues, a few more hours. It wouldn't have taken that long, and he probably would have benefited more from the city medicines than the herbal concoctions of the village's midwife.

But we were tired, and so we stopped. The villagers welcomed us with glee, at first mistaking us for their own caravan. "They'll arrive soon," said one woman as she patted my arm, her grin missing a few teeth. "Lucky for you'ns, get two celebrations this year!"

"Yes," I had said, distracted with something. Perhaps my pack? My weapon? Maybe even Patrick? He was so ill, after all. I don't think I ever really looked at the woman who greeted me so fondly.

I wish I had.

To this day, even now as I sit in this chair by the hearth and while away what time I have left, I wish I had. I know not what she looks like, but her voice haunts me in my dreams.

**The Second Lesson - Choices **

I wander that first night, content in the knowledge that this year is going to be _different_, that this year we're going to be all right. Lian Cre survived her first blood, we're ahead of schedule for myrrh, and so far everything has gone according to plan.

"So far, so good," I say to the other Selkie, stretching my arms above my head. Several joints pop, and I laugh as Lian winces with each crack. "This will happen to you, you know."

"You know, every time someone says that, everything goes to hell right after," she warns me in reply to my first statement, amusement conquering her annoyance.

"I suppose most people hold that to be true," I say, shooting my companion a grin. "But we're invincible."

Funnily enough, at that moment I truly believed it.

"Zin! Lian!" Sinna shouts behind us, and I turn to look behind me. From our high viewpoint on the ridge it's easy to see the torches surrounding the village entrance, and from the light they cast to see waves and ripples in her mahogany hair and the panic on her face (she's beautiful) as she waves frantically from the door of our guest house. Part of me laughs at the abundance of torches -- they sure are eager to welcome this caravan home. I don't think Roland's ever been that delighted to see us.

Lian Cre scrambles to her feet. "What is it?" she shouts back, ignorant of how rude this yelled conversation is.

"It's Patrick!" My blood runs cold for a moment, but before I can shout my own questions, before I can even gain my own footing the Clavat is back in the house.

I leap to my feet, almost twisting an ankle in my eagerness, running hard on the heels of Lian Cre as we hit the trail at the end of the ridge. We blast through the meandering paths of the village, Lian nearly bowling over a man in her haste.

"Sorry!" I yelp as I catch his arm to steady him, in turn using the man as a pivot to turn the corner. He mutters something derogatory about "Young'ns these days," and "Thievin' Selkie bitches" in general but I've long stopped listening by the time he shakes himself off and sighs, "Fog's rolling in."

**ooo**

Kin's footfalls in the dawn come most unwelcome, heavy steps against the wooden floor that vibrate uncomfortably under my back. Still not quite awake I swear halfheartedly at him. Our fearless leader hadn't been the one tending his subordinate for the majority of the night, after all. I need a lie in. I need it _now_.

"Better," comes the muted timbre of his voice. "When did his fever break?"

"Go die," I mumble from beneath my solitary blanket. It's _freezing_ in here, and if I didn't know any better I would swear the fog had rolled into this very room last night. A cough tears its way from my throat. The air seems heavy.

"A turn or so before dawn," comes Sinna's sleep-deprived whisper. "Now can I please sleep?"

A low chuckle from the bedside, and a creak as Kin rises. "All right, you two. If anyone asks I'm speaking with the village elder. Something seems--" he coughs once, twice. "Anyway, come find me when you're awake."

He leaves, but the blast of cold air that follows his exit has me awake in seconds. Curse it all! I grope around for my clothing, pulling on the leather and fur garments. Absolutely _freezing_ here, and not even winter!

Sinna cracks an eye to glare at the noise, only to smile contentedly as my blanket is added to hers. _Someone_ might as well enjoy a lie in. Of course, at the end of the day it's survival of the fittest. She may now have two blankets, but I take her coat in exchange.

My first thought as I step into the village of Tida at dawn is spent worshiping the sheer _warmth_ of the woolen overcoat my comrade always wears. Forget Selkies and their obsession with the ocean, I should have been born a Clavat.

My second thought is spent wondering at the heaviness in the air, and how it makes my belly roil with nausea, my third in how it will be interesting to see another village's caravan celebrations, my fourth for where said caravan is, and my fifth for the way the crystal flickers and goes out for an instant from its place further into the village.

The sixth is overtaken by a terror that grips deep in my heart and closes my throat with its chill.

As the crystal flickers again, blinking out for even longer this time, I realize so many things. In that moment it all comes together in my mind, a perfect, cohesive understanding that there's no time left, that the air is dank and heavy because it isn't just air, that the chill in the morning wasn't just from the seasonal turns.

Unless that caravan arrives _right now_, they might as well not bother coming.

Tida's time has run out. The only question left is, had its people's?

At that moment I freeze, torn between reaching Kindryth and the rest of our caravan. Tactical sensibility says to go for Kindryth; it's likely he's with the elder and the village needs to be warned. Yet my heart wars with this reasoning, flooding my mind with images of the sleeping Sinna slowly choking to death on the encroaching miasma, an ill Patrick slowly succumbing to the poison filling his lungs, a confused Lian Cre suffocating beneath an implacable enemy. My body remembers the feeling of straining to live despite the toxicity, the excruciating feeling of lungs screaming for air. If I leave them, that is exactly how they will die, a slow and terrible asphyxiation. At that moment, I know I can't save them all, my comrades and the villagers.

Another flicker galvanizes my tired limbs. _They should have saved themselves_, I think before I realize that my feet have propelled me into a run, straight back to our dwelling. _They knew it was coming_. _They didn't tell us._

A part of me, the vengeful one that protects her comrades at all costs, wonders if they deserve to die.

All the other parts, however, are too busy trying to figure out how we might live.

The fog is rolling into the fields beyond the village now, heavier than before. I speed up, each step slapping the ground with my boots, and pray to all the deities I have ever heard of that I won't be too late.


	6. Tida's Fall

Years ago, in my first year on the road with the caravan, our leader said something to me I will never forget.

We had regrouped after a particularly rough battle with the cave wyrm in Selepation Cave, a fight that ended with all of us leaping into the waiting ocean below rather than retrace our footsteps through the monster riddled cavern. When we emerged from the sea, absolutely soaked through and shivering in the cool winds already emanating from the dungeon, Droma Wren threw the chalice onto the sand with a sigh and shake.

"We don't leave anybody behind," the older Lilty said. "I don't care how desperately you want to save your own ass. We don't leave our comrades behind."

Though these statements were directed more towards the one who actually leaped first (and took the chalice with him), I took the words to heart.

It is important to understand, dearheart, that choices are shapes by more than situations.

* * *

Early as it is, the roads of Tida are deserted.

"Rouse the village!" I shout, stumbling over a particularly protruding doorstep. "The miasma, the crystal--!" I don't even know how to convey the immenseness of this impending doom.

Somewhere between my realization and my destination I find my words. "The crystal's going out!" I don't know who hears me, who rises to see what the disturbance is all about and who ignores the cries as nothing important. I continue shouting anyway. If even one person hears me and listens, I will have been successful.

Up the steps, push the door open so hard it ricochets off the wall with a bang, through the door and down the hall to the tiny room where they lay. "Get up!" I yell, slamming through the door. "Sinna, Lian Cre, we've got to get out of here."

Sinna is already on her feet, naked sword already in hand. "What's going on?" she demands, nudging the owlishly blinking Lian Cre to complete wakefulness.

"The caravan's not coming," I say, bent nearly in half and wheezing. The latter worries me most; I'm having an abnormally difficult time breathing for someone in excellent fighting condition.

"Zin?" a hoarse voice croaks from the lump of rumpled blankets on the bed, and all three of us hurry over. Patrick weakly raises a hand to wave us off and begins to sit up. "What--"

Sinna gestures for Lian to take the blankets, hands already busy assisting her twin in rising. Once Patrick is situated on the edge of the bed I pass him his clothing. "Let's do this quickly," I say, hauling him to a standing position and letting him use my shoulder to balance himself. "We've got to get going."

From across the room Sinna's gaze locks with mine. "We can't. If he catches a chill now he could die."

"If he catches any miasma he will die," Lian Cre says quietly, the arm she places around the Clavat's shoulders both a gesture of comfort and restraint. "If Zin Del is correct, we're better off going."

There are so many matters to worry about. My hands are shaking, but nowhere near as bad as Patrick's, who needs me to tie the laces of his coat for him. "I'm sorry," he says, but the words are lost in the babble of us girls.

"First the chalice," I say, automatically taking the lead. "We get the chalice, then go to Kindryth. He'll be at the crystal, which should hold out long enough for us to rescue him."

"If it will hold out long enough, shouldn't we get him first?" Lian Cre asks as we head out of the house, our pace just short of a run. Sinna is following somewhere behind, half-carrying half-supporting her brother.

A furtive glance behind me shows that only the other Selkie is in earshot. I lower my voice anyway. "I don't know how long it will hold. Guessing by the flickers, maybe long enough for us to reach the crystal. Maybe not, and Kindryth dies. But if we reach it, only to run out of air? Then we're all dead."

The wagon is not far from our lodgings, and we have enough time to take stock of our items. Weapons, armor, extra equipment, a cure ring, and all gods forbid we might have need of them, our precious few phoenix downs.

"We don't have a lot of time," I say by way of explanation as I heft the chalice to my shoulder. Its familiar weight is a comfort now (This is perhaps the greatest understatement of my life.)

* * *

I outline the plan as we hurry through the winding roads, avoiding and sometimes even shoving the confused, milling villagers out of our way. Most though, seem to have the same idea as us. Head to the crystal.

"There's something you didn't consider," Patrick says after a moment, words punctuated by a cough originating deep in his chest. I want to steady him, but my hands are occupied and I don't think he'd appreciate the gesture. Men. "If the crystal dies, we're going to be the only safe zone. We'll get mobbed."

It isn't true that I haven't considered it. I considered it.

"If it comes to that, do what has to be done." I want to leave it there, but Sinna's mouth is open and about to voice a protest. "No," my voice grates out, harsh from miasma exposure, and without even looking I know she's flinched at the tone. "No, listen. Tipa is our first priority, always. Then our lives, then others'. You know this. If they mob us to get the chalice, we do what has to be done."

Lian Cre's voice cracks. "What you are suggesting is murder."

"That is an order, caravanner, by your leader. Kin can refute it when we reach him, but until then you will follow my lead. Is that clear?"

Both women look as if they are still of mind to dissent when Patrick intervenes. "Your order, Zin Del."

My order. My liability. My hands. Their blood.

In that moment I hope it won't come to this, pray it won't. In that moment, I know it will.

The crystal looms ahead, the flickers coming in little pulses every few seconds. It won't be long now.

My heart feels heavier with every step, and it's almost a relief when we reach the already crowded bridge. "Kin said he'd be with the elder," Sinna reminds me, and so I take a deep breath before shoving my way into the press of people. It's not the smartest thing to do, really. Anything could incite a mob at this point, especially the pushy and somewhat scantily clad Selkie woman currently yelling and cursing loudly at anyone who fails to move from her path.

What can I say? It's tribal dress, and that's just the way I am.

"Gods above, Zin, we're not here to pick a fight," Patrick mutters from somewhere behind me, yet his hand still grips the back of my belt and his paces still match my previous ones. Something in me is profoundly grateful for this. Loud and boisterous act or not, I am still a rather vertically challenged woman, as my sister likes to joke. That he continues to follow boosts my waning courage considerably. He knows that I know how this will end. That someone else does is vaguely comforting.

"There's no way we'll make it in time," Sinna says, and I'm already partially turned to hiss at her to shut her damn trap, before I put my foot in it, when I realize she'd spoken to dead silence. Despite the quiet, no one turned to look at her, and then and there I know we're all headed to hell in a hand basket.

"Elder," a woman cries from somewhere closer to the front of the crowd, "What is going on? Where is our caravan?"

Mutters follow her shout, and the noise level quickly rises. We're halfway to a mob and it isn't even my fault. All it will take is for someone to get the bright idea to do something violent for the rest of the crowd to quickly turn into a seething mill of barely pent up fear and despair. As luck would have it, we would be right in the middle. Of course.

Our caravan's bad luck can throw itself into the ocean with several rocks tied to its feet, preferably.

As inconspicuously as possible I shift the chalice off my shoulder and into the circle of my arms. It will be harder to knock it from my grasp there.

"Elder, if you would only reconsider my offer…" Even from the distance I can recognize Kin's cultured voice anywhere. As to what offer, I have my suspicions.

The elder's voice rises above the crowd, deep and proud and so, so full of foolish bravado. "Make no insult to Tida, caravanner. Our caravan will be returning shortly. We will wait for them."

Behind them all, resting in the huge set that we people carry out our little dramas in front of, the crystal flickers yet again, its inner light blinking several times.

I start to shift backwards, Kindryth or not. That crystal's about to go and the people ahead of me aren't going to budge an inch. If Kin's as smart as he acts he'll be heading for us as quickly as he can.

Patrick apparently doesn't catch the hint, and I stumble into him. "We're heading back," I hiss at him, turning fully around and finishing my words with a loud and obvious, "Well, if there's nothing to worry about."

In truth, I just don't want to be stuck in the middle of a very desperate mob the moment that crystal dies. I'm harsh, I'm grim, I'm judgmental and blooded and probably more than a little crazy, but if I can avoid this slaughter I will.

We've only just made it out of the crowd, practically to the next road's intersection and on our way out of the village, when the crystal dies. One flicker, two, a third, and then nothing. The slight blue light fades utterly and abruptly.

The screams don't start until but a moment later.

For a moment I can't bring myself to turn and look, but I also know I must. I must bear witness to this tragedy, to the endless series of errors that led to this. I must bear witness, I must be there, I must look and see and watch and cry silent tears as one by one the villagers of Tida fall, as one by one they die.

I hold the chalice, I bear part of the blame, and I watch them fall.

Behind me I can hear muffled sobbing and brief, tortured gasps as my comrades also watch. I gave them the order: they will stand firm. Part of me is glad for this. Part of me hates them for letting me do this.

Mostly I just hate me right then.

The ones on the edge of the crowd, the ones who have yet to crumple to the ground in the throes of painful, poisoned asphyxiation stagger towards us. Behind them the crowd turned mob tears itself to pieces in panic, clawing and biting and desperate, savages doing savage things to save themselves. It makes no difference, for soon enough the very air in their lungs betrays them. And still we watch.

I hold the chalice in a white knuckled grip, rooted to the spot. Only a handful of the villagers are still moving towards us, most crawling by now, only the strongest still standing. They haul their bodies forward step by painful step, and yet I still cannot move. If I help them, I take the chance that Tipa's caravan will be killed, and therefore not return. If I don't help them, I take the chance of never forgiving myself. So many lives in my hands and on my shoulders and over my head either way. There is no easy choice. There never is.

There is screaming--

--and cries for help--

--and staggering--

--and blood pooling beneath the bodies torn apart by the mob--

--and sobbing--

--and the miasma thickens by the minute--

--and some fall to their knees, only to continue crawling, but there is nowhere to crawl to--

--and we watch.

From the corner of my eye I see Sinna sink to the cobblestone street, head bowed in some sort of prayer, back quaking with barely contained sobs. I want to slap her, want to scream, "Look, damn you!" but it's not her price to pay. So I see for her, and she cries for me. Later, when the enormity of what I have done (or what I haven't done) hits me, I will shed my tears

In the blink of an eye, like some sort of phantom, he emerges from the swirls of miasma at the edge of the crowd. A hand grabs at his foot, and with nary a glance Kindryth the gentle healer slams his warhammer down upon it so hard I can hear the crack from even this distance.

He is so often the savior I often forget that he is also a destroyer, as much as I or any of the rest of us are.

Like an avenging angel he picks his way through the crowd, striking down any who attempt to stop him. Lian Cre gasps behind me at the sheer brutality our kind and brilliant leader exhibits as he walks toward us. A short moan follows the gasp, and the widow quietly retches as Kin smashes the face of a villager in, bent near double under the strain of the miasma.

* * *

Of all who attempted to reach safety, only Kindryth the Yuke entered the chalice circle that day. More than fifty villagers had died in their sleep, still tucked into their beds. More than forty had died on that bridge, demanding to know where their caravan was. Others must have died out in the fields, though we never found their bodies.

Overall the death count reached ninety-eight, not counting the missing caravan. I hope they were dead, though. If they weren't, then I hope their lives were hell.

Nearly a hundred dead, and I had not moved a single step. Someday I will spend an eternity rotting in hell for this, and I will deserve each and every second.

Maybe I will even welcome it.

I know these numbers only because, in the aftermath of it all, we walked through each and every inch of Tida Village to find them. It was all I could give, that and my solemn oath to never fail my own village so thoroughly.

There is a price for everything in this world, a consequence for every choice made, whether the choice involves action or not. What happened to the caravan that left Tida with the promise of myrrh to come I know not, only that their decisions rippled farther and further than they could possibly have imagined.

You see, shortly after the failure of the crystal, Kindryth developed a cough that would not go away. And so we, too, would pay the price for the mistakes of strangers.


	7. The Third Lesson

At the same time, there are moments in life where there simply is no reasonable choice. You do something, or suffer the terrible consequences, or let others suffer them on your behalf. Some shine in those moments. Others fade, or are unable to accept the burden placed upon them.

After the fall of Tida, I refused to let my village down. In doing so, I took on a burden greater than I ever imagined.

* * *

_Dawn seems to take forever to come the next morning, for I do not sleep. We did not move far from Tida, only a league or so, but in retrospect we should have moved further. The lack of light on the horizon, the absence of a crystal's glow… I have been to what seems the edge of the world before, yet have never felt as alone as I do tonight._

_Kindryth also remains awake, though not for lack of trying. He __cannot sleep, not when every few moments another jarring cough wracks his body. Though I pity him in his agony, each cough is a personal relief for me. He lives. He _lives_. His body is failing even as I write, but he lives._

_At this point it is probably best that he does not sleep. I fear that without his focus on each lungful, he might cease to breathe._

-Zin Del

(Excerpted from the Crystal Chronicle in her sixth year)

* * *

**Leadership and Responsibility**

-The Third Lesson-

* * *

I'm afraid. No, that's not right. I'm downright terrified. This whole ordeal is a nightmare I can't seem to wake from. For years this fear has driven me, my four companions, and six other caravans to brave the world and all its dangers, but it has never been as real to me as it is now.

One mistake, one misstep, and everyone I have ever cared for could die. It never hit me until now just what that meant, and now the knowledge is crushing me. What do I do now?

Kin is finally asleep, practically unconscious really, Sinna anxiously monitoring him. The rest laze about the circle pretending to take care of various chores, but I feel their eyes on me as I stare at our map. The pretense doesn't bother me, because if I'm honest with myself I'm not really seeing the map. I'm seeing the possible outcomes of the decisions I have made and will be making.

Declaring myself leader in Kin's absence was, in retrospect, the worst mistake I could have made.

What's done is done, I remind myself. Maybe someday that phrase will make me feel better; today it only presents harder choices to make. A caravaner's life, or the lives of those we left behind The village for one man, or one man for the village?

The choice seems so evident when I phrase it that way. Mentally, logically, _ethically_ I cannot put Kindryth's life ahead of theirs, but my heart tells a different story. Emotionally, pathologically, Kindryth is worth ten villages. He is the sort of man who changes the world just by being in it.

Priorities I spouted so determinedly the day before be damned. Is the life of my friend worth Tipa? There are no easy decisions. There never are.

Is this what Kindryth felt every single day?

With a sigh I set the map down, a weary "Attend," escaping my lips. The others drop their chores instantly, and I faintly hear Lian Cre whisper "Thank God."

Tension: the real killer. I would laugh if it weren't horribly inappropriate.

They gather near me, the better to not wake Kin, and I begin in a low voice.

"The way I see it, we've got three options. Option one, we head for Alfitaria. It's closest, Kin will get some medical attention though they'll probably ship him to Shella as soon as they can, and we can report the Tida… incident," I say, gritting my teeth on the last word. "Problems with this one include us being blamed for what happened there, which may result in us standing trial and serving time in the gaol. They also might tell us to take Kin to Shella ourselves. Either way we're looking at an indeterminable delay in our year."

Such good listeners, our merry little band. They have yet to speak a word in protest. Then again, they haven't heard Option Three yet.

"Second option we head straight for Shella. Best medical attention anywhere, no bureaucratic reports, and the Veo Lu Sluice myrrh tree is still fresh, even if it's not on our schedule this year. Downside to this is that it takes longer to get to Shella, we anger another caravan, and Kin might very well die while en route. And even if we do make it, they might not be able to do anything for him but make sure he's comfortable for his last days." The crease between Sinna's eyebrows deepens . I know it's a delicate subject, but they need to understand the risks we are taking. "Again, depending on his recovery time, we also face a huge delay here."

I have to swallow twice before starting in on the next one, because my mouth is suddenly very dry. "On the other hand, Kindryth could also die well before we reach Alfitaria. Having seen what happened to the villagers of Tida, we decide that no one life is above that of Tipa, and continue on our journey to gather myrrh. It doesn't matter where we go, only that there are no delays beyond that of the time it takes to dig a grave--"

The words are barely out of my mouth when Sinna lunges, hands wrapping around my throat as her momentum topples the both of us. I hit the ground hard, hands already at her wrists even as Patrick shouts and Lian Cre runs to the wagon.

I can't break her grip. This shouldn't surprise me, because she's a mean hand with a broadsword and I don't know where the pressure points are located on a Clavat's body anyway, yet it does. I was _born_ for the melee, and it shows as despite the ferocity of her attack I lift with my hips and roll us both over. A dust cloud puffs into the air as I slam her into the rocky soil.

She's hissing something at me, but I'm only catching parts of it as her hands tighten. She doesn't know pressure points at all, at least not on a Selkie, thank the gods, or this fight would already be over and not in my favor. Finesse or not if I don't get more air soon she will win by default, and I have had enough of suffocating to last the rest of my life.

I slap her across the face. "Let go," I try to say, but no sound emerges and her grip keeps increasing and things are getting fuzzy as I pull back and punch her, _hard_, right in the stomach. Her hands loosen as her body curls beneath mine. I breathe like I've just emerged from the sea.

It suddenly occurs to me that the hands pulling at my back have been doing so for some time now, and I lever myself off of the Clavat, who appears almost as shocked by her outburst of violence as I feel.

Lian Cre helps me to my feet as Patrick kneels at his sister's side. She looks me over and I wonder at the racket she holds as she eyes my throat.

"You're going to have quite the bruise," she says after a brief examination. "Good luck explaining it."

I'm still so overwhelmed by the past moment's events that I only shake my head at her before turning to look Sinna over. She's fine, gotten off lightly with only a reddened cheek, some scrapes, and a bit of blood on her hands.

I pause. Blood? Gingerly I feel at my neck, encountering wetness that stings when I press my fingertips to it. The bitch left huge scratches all along the sides of my throat, and I have to fight the urge to slap her again. It was a horrid choice of words, I know, but that I feel far safer with Lian Cre suddenly only adds to the wrongness of this whole situation.

Finally I catch my breath (and temper) enough to speak. "What the hell was that?" I demand, unable to help the slight cough that punctuates my sentence. Sinna flinches as if I'd whipped her with that tiny expulsion of air, and predictably does not look at me.

Tension kills, really. I swear it. Not even Patrick will look me in the eye right then as I clear my throat again for good measure. Good leadership, I remind myself, does not usually involve slugging your subordinates into submission. Rather, it involves coercing their obedience through the careful application of guilt.

I consider coughing again, then dismiss the thought as overdoing it at the moment. "I wasn't finished."

Lian Cre has the gall to roll her eyes, yet I notice her hand tense on the racket at her side all the same. Sinna still does not look at me.

"A vote," I say into the silence. "Alfitaria, Shella, myrrh." At the surprised look on Patrick's face I can't help but grin. "What, did you think I would decide without you? We're a team. We're all in this together."

He smiles in return (he is the only one), my harsh words already forgiven, and I am grateful for his faith in me. I want to convey this somehow, by gesture or expression, but his attention is again on his twin and I wait for her words.

"I abstain," she says, face hidden behind the curtain of auburn hair. I really hate her overdeveloped sense of nobility right then. Much as I would like to protest her bystander complex I resist, mentally marking her as a vote for either Shella or Alfitaria and turning to Patrick for the next vote.

There is no doubt whatsoever in his eyes as he looks up at me. "Shella," he says. He doesn't have to say his reasons; I already know them.

As I turn to Lian Cre I notice she has moved the racket to rest against her shoulder, her knuckles glaringly white against the dark pitch of the whipcord hand grip. "You're not going to like this," she warns, though her gaze is trained on the Clavat twins.

I shrug. "Say it anyway." She has the racket for a reason, really.

Her eyes do not flicker over to me to gauge my reaction. I'm not sure what to think of this. I decide to be comforted, because at least this time I'm not the unstable one. "I say we go after the myrrh."

Neither of the two still crouched in the dirt moves beyond Sinna snapping her head up to look at the nervous Selkie. This is a rather smart move on her part, as Lian has a weapon and apparently has no qualms with killing her comrades.

With that thought in mind the amount of people in this caravan that I feel safe with drops to zero.

All business despite the urge to edge away from the widow, I nod. "Go on."

Unhappily, she does. "You said it first, Zin Del. Tipa is our first priority. After seeing what happened to that village, well, I suddenly understand why people get so nervous about the caravan schedule. We have a duty to everyone in Tipa. Dare we shirk it for one Yuke?" She looks at me particularly after a slight pause. "Who are we to decide that Kindryth, decent as he is, is worth more than an entire village?"

My dilemma put into words for all and sundry. I would thank her, if only she hadn't put the choice firmly in my lap once more. And once more their eyes are all on me.

I really hate the twins at this moment. Why they can't live up to the stereotype of Clavats as mediators and peacekeepers I will never understand.

I breathe in, trying to buy both time and clarity and failing to purchase either. The decision has already been made, really. If I let every good man die for the sake of the nameless many there will be no good men left.

Even in my mind this makes no sense. But does it have to?

If I want the world to be defined in stereotypes, the least I can do is fall into my own. I can lead with my heart first, brawn second, and brain about thirty paces behind.

"Clear the camp," I say, exhaling in a long sigh. "Looks like we're heading to Shella."


	8. A Leader's Responsibilities

The wagon is creaking and groaning behind me as it sways and bumps its way along the well worn road. The sounds are eerie in the overall stillness of the night. Yet despite the darkness that presses in so heavily on our little caravan we travel, the path lit only by the small lantern dangling from the wagon's overhang.

Traveling by night is dangerous. More than one good caravanner has lost his or her life to monsters, or brigands, or the sheer unpredictability of the roads. Beyond the Lilty kept regions the roads are not maintained and far less traveled, without the advantage of daylight it would be far too easy to leave the road, or to roll right into a deadly situation without realizing. If Kindryth's life were not on the line I would have called a halt far earlier.

The others rest in the back. I don't bother to turn and check on them. Years of sleeping in the same cramped spaces with them tell me all I need to know from memory: Patrick is sprawled on his back, arms akimbo, head probably resting on a sack of clothing. Sinna will be at his side, back curled into the curve of his body, hands tucked in close to her chest despite the warmth of such close quarters. Her hands are always close to her, always folded into fists. Kin will be sitting, reclined against more clothing and food packs, his visor tilted upward but never removed. While his pose is usually one of utter stillness I have to edit my mental picture; this time his body is knotted in pain as it struggles to repair the damage done to it.

Lian Cre, on the other hand, is still alien to me. I don't know how she sleeps. Is she quiet, still as Kin, or is she loud like Patrick, muttering in her dreams? Perhaps she moves like Sinna, working her way to the sources of heat we all present.

Now I'm curious. One look won't hurt. We're still traversing one of the main roads, having bridged it slightly before the turn off to Moschet's Manor. The seasons have not yet turned, I need not yet worry for washouts or storm debris. I chance it.

She is laying perpendicular to Kin, her fingers weaved into Sinna's hair. It isn't until those fingers move that I realize she is still awake, still unused to sleeping as the wagon bounces down the road. My lips curl into a smile unwittingly.

Her eyes flicker up to me, I have looked too long. Despite the dim her eyes are glints of silver, her hair a moonbeam through a curtained gap. She breathes, slow and long in the silence, then rises catlike to make her way towards me. I return my eyes to the road, my own breathing suddenly harsher, a swooping feeling clenching at my stomach.

She settles on the bench beside me, one hand on my bare shoulder for balance. Her hand is warm, soft even. My own are so rough in comparison, covered in calluses and scars, my nails cracked and often as not torn to the quick. They are a brute's hands.

It isn't often I feel a pang for the gentle, easy life I could have had, at least not anymore. In the early years there was still time to change. Now I am set in stone, a caravanner for life. Should I survive long enough to actually retire from the caravan, well, I try not to think too far ahead. Too often there's no future for myrrh gatherers.

"You seem lost in thought," she says, voice lowered to a whisper. "Want to talk or would you rather be left alone?"

My throat is suddenly tight. I daren't look at her. From the corner of my eye she is shadowed, the lamp bobbing behind the bright halo of her hair. "Talking is fine," I say, "Great even." In my haste to sound less like a tongue-tied idiot I blurt out my next words. "I wanted to thank you. For earlier."

"It was nothing." Her voice is no longer a whisper, yet still low. Husky, even. She really is beautiful, I realize, and not just by Selkie standards. Her skin is smooth, her features even. She is delicate by appearance yet muscled, long and lean and strong like those swords only the great houses have, the ones that stab rather than slice. And yet she is all woman at the same time, her breasts generous cups, hips wide and curving, toned thighs peeping from her feathered skirt before disappearing once more into high rising boots. No one would dare mistake her for a man. She looks the part of a warrior queen, regal and dignified even with blood dripping from her hands.

I cluck softly to our papaopamus and tug on the left rein to steer him away from the edge of the road. Best to be in the middle on a night like this. "It wasn't nothing. A few moments more and she might have hurt me. And you didn't back down in the vote, even when what you said wasn't exactly popular."

"It was nothing," she says again, but I can't let it go at just that.

I have to know. I _need_ to know. "What was going on in your mind when you ran to get your racket? What did you think you were going to do?"

Her eyes are dark, flat in the shadows. "What do you think I intended?"

"I'm asking you." I have to know.

"When she went for you, it was with killing intent. I went for my weapon, because if she had succeeded… well, she would not have succeeded."

I stare into that steely gaze and shudder at what we have all come to in these past few days.

"You did right at Tida," she says after a moment, after I have already returned to watching the road ahead. It takes some self control not to whip my head back to look at her. I am amazed I manage not to. "You did right by Tipa and the caravan. I will probably be the only one who will ever tell you this."

I murmur an assent. That I did know.

"You'll be known as a pariah, rejected by many, your name spat like a curse," she continues, and I can't help but frown. Way to drive the point home, Lian Cre. As if I haven't already realized all of this.

"And as such--" Gods she's _still_ talking. I don't want to think about this anymore, not right now. I don't want to think of the dead, of the mob, of the way I gave the order to let them die. I want her to stop.

"--we should keep our involvement a secret."

That stops me short. My hands involuntarily clench as I pull them to my chest, a purely defensive move, and the papaopamus snorts and jerks to a halt.

Damn. I hadn't meant to do that. Yet more time wasted, and with Kindryth still sounding like a set of wet, broken bellows, every moment is precious.

With a grunt I slap the reins against the papaopamus's back; he echoes my frustration with a sigh of his own before once more trundling along. Satisfied with the solution to _one_ problem I move to the next, this time with the reins looped over my knee and both hands resting in my lap, near enough for emergency but not for mishap. Once again focused I don't even spare a glance to ask, "What do you mean?"

The only reason I feel a rush of pride at how casually I speak is because there is nothing casual in the way it felt as if every bit of me was standing at the edge of a cliff and peering over. I had been prepared to do whatever it took to save my village. But I'm not so sure I am prepared to enter a life of hermitage because of my actions.

"There will be enough grief at this loss. There need not be hatred as well."

I frown. "So what do we say?"

Tonight I may not have all the answers, but it appears Lian Cre does. "Kin was trapped outside the chalice circle for too long during a fight with monsters. We heard that something strange was going on at Tida from a passing traveler, we noticed we couldn't see the crystal's glow from far away. They'll send someone to investigate, we'll be blameless."

So badly I want to take this way out it nearly hurts me to protest. "We can't just wash our hands of it like that--"

"You atone for your sins in your own way, Zin Del," her voice is deadly in its quiet, "And let me atone in mine."

"For you, for all of you," I amend softly, "There is nothing to atone for. It was my order. You did right by your town and by your caravan. You did right by me." I have to take a deep breath, my eyes blinking rapidly. None of us can afford tears right now, especially me. "No one will ever tell you that again, so listen up."

That, at least, draws something of a chuckle from the strange, stern woman turned warrior who sits beside me. "Thank you," she says, and we lapse into an easy silence once more.

The gentle sways and rhythmic creaks of the wagon soon prove soporific and I have to fight my way from the soothing grip of slumber. My eyelids feel as if Patrick strapped the chalice to them as some sort of prank. Thinking of that makes me smile, and I open my eyes.

Conversation will keep me awake, but what do Lian Cre and I have in common beyond a gender and a tribe and a situation we can't leave behind? I suppose conversations have been built on less similarities but I've never been good at the small town gossip my mother is so fond of. What would I say? What can I ask? What do I know of this woman who is both widow and warrior?

Widow. Suddenly I know.

"How did you meet Trin Mar?" Out of respect for her loss and our uncertain (but growing, I'm at least certain of this) camaraderie I use his full name. In Selkie culture the shortening of a name is special, used only as an intimacy or an insult. Trin had allowed me to call him by a nickname, as I had allowed him the same in regards to me. We were friends. I knew him as well as any two people who spend years of their lives stuck inside a tiny circle of livable space.

Trin used to drive the caravan. Patrick took over after that desperate day in the Mushroom Forest, though, at the end of last year. I know he cried that day, silent on the driver's box as we all sat in shock behind him. I know because of the way that careful, conscientious Patrick drove us straight into several large potholes. It's hard to see the road through tear blurred eyes.

I have to blink hard to pull myself together this time. No tears. Not now. Later, when this is all over.

It's strange then, because as I look over at Lian Cre to distract myself I find that I barely recognize her. She has transformed, the years falling away from her as she remembers him. There is an expression on her face I have never seen before, a mix of tenderness and love and loss.

Grains of jealousy harden in the pit of my belly, then soften just as quickly. I want someone to love me that way; I want to never know that gaping ocean-wide void of loss.

"It was my first festival in Tipa," she says slowly, eyes closed. Whatever she sees in her memory makes her smile. "I'd watched you all during the crystal rite, watched him… he must have felt my stare, for when it came time to dance he was there, right before me, standing hipshot. One of his hands was hooked through that bandolier he had slung across his chest, the other outstretched. I didn't even think; I took that hand and we went from there."

I, too, remember that ceremony, though not as vividly. I recall being bemused at Trin's sudden infatuation with the newcomer, even idly wondering if he would bed her. But I was too preoccupied with catching up with my family and friends to really pay attention to his actions.

"To be honest, all I expected was company for the night," Lian Cre continued, "But he didn't pursue me beyond the dancing circle. I was definitely confused, and feeling rather jilted when I got his first letter."

Trin had been so quiet that next year, always with a quill pen and some parchment paper nearby. We'd all noticed the change, all teased him mercilessly when Patrick tricked the reason out of him. Head over rump for the pretty newcomer? The one he'd barely spoken to? Pure Trin, always pranking and getting into scheme after scheme. He and Patrick were two of a kind, so serious in battle and so silly outside of it. At least, they were until Trin's death left Patrick serious all the time.

I ruthlessly steer my memories back to when Trin Mar was still alive and well, when Patrick still joked around and Sinna and I would laugh until we cried, holding each other up as Kin watched with a gentle, paternal eye. Those are good memories, of times so very good and so very missed.

"I can't even describe the way he wrote. It was like having him there, or being there with him. It was like having pieces of his life--"

--she'd had pieces of his heart--

"--inside my head. Even in his writing he had this…this quality. I can't explain it."

I could. "He was always himself, wasn't he?"

Something in her face changes, and I realize she had practically forgotten I was here. Lost in memory, it didn't matter who she spoke to, only that she spoke at all in remembrance of the man she had loved.

She nods. "Yes. That's it. That's exactly it."

Frowning, I search for something to say. I don't want this to end, not yet.

It comes to me shortly. "When he got your reply, he was ecstatic. Over the moon with happiness. You made his… entire year, just with that one reply. And then you kept writing." I can't help but sigh. "That was the happiest I'd ever seen him, when he got your letters. Ever."

Trin Mar was my friend, and I hope his fiancé is becoming my friend as well. So it's for both their sakes that I say that, that I say this now: "He loved you so much."

He would have wanted her to hear it one last time. She needed to hear it said by someone else, to have someone else recognize that their love was not made up or imaginary, for someone to know that she had truly loved and been loved by him.

"I knew," she says, "But thank you for telling me." And then, even softer, "I miss him."

I don't reply, only grip the reins in both hands and focus hard on the stars above us. I pretend not to hear the slight hitching of her breath as she cries.

Sometimes grief is too private to be shared.

* * *

By sunrise my eyes feel gritty. I'm exhausted, my hands trembling each time I lift them to steer our caravan away from deep ruts and the edges of the road. Lian Cre has long since retreated to the back of the wagon and to peaceful slumber, which is good because I've never been much for mornings anyway.

The hand that taps my shoulder is a welcome relief. I nearly throw the reins at Patrick in my haste to get horizontal and get some much needed sleep.

The only space left for me to sprawl out in is right behind the driver's box. I'll have to bend in a few less than comfortable ways to fit around the packs, but at this point I'm just glad I don't have far to go.

I don't recall laying down, nor the effort it takes to worm my way into an acceptable sleeping position. I am halfway to dreaming by then. I do, however, recall Patrick leaning backward over the box in order to peer into my face.

He is saying something or other. "Repeat, please," I mutter, pushing at one of the packs with a particularly sharp corner until it gives way.

"Sleep, Zinnia," he says, brown eyes serious. "You've done enough." My brain notes that in the brightness one could argue that the look on his face is softened somehow, tender even.

I chalk it up to delusions caused by a lack of sleep.

With his blessing, it isn't long before I sink into sweet, sweet oblivion.

* * *

In my dreams there were flowers and lovers and boys with brown eyes and far too much screaming.

Sometimes, I still dream of this.

* * *

We pass the time as best we can, in shifts of healing, sleeping, and guiding the wagon. We arrive at Shella during one of my own sleeping shifts.

When I return to the realm of consciousness , there is a roaring in my ears that refuses to abate. I am understandably confused.

Soon I can make out voices over the roar. A familiar voice, male, angry. A less familiar but still known voice, female, placating. A completely unknown voice, male, indignant.

I don't want to get up. If I get up, I have to deal with it. I don't want to deal. Kin, Tida, caravanning in general… if I sleep I don't have to think about it.

I'm so tired.

"You do not have the mark! Therefore, _you do not enter_," the strange voice insists. I squeeze my eyes shut. Not my problem, not my turn, not my time.

"We're caravanners! We've been here a thousand times! What do _you_ not understand about all of this? He's dying, for gods' sakes."

"Yelling isn't going to help anyone here--"

"Yelling is the only way we're going to get in here, Sinna! If I have to shout our situation until all of Shella hears it and demands we be let in then I will."

Sinna. And Patrick. Lian Cre quiet, and Kindryth dying. _Dying_.

Not my problem. I've done enough, given enough.

He's _dying_.

"You may shout all you want, _sir_, but you do not have the mark. I cannot help you anymore."

Patrick's voice lowers until it is nearly inaudible against the roar of the waterfalls and I find myself involuntarily straining to hear his next words.

"You worthless, arrogant sack of shit," he says, and my own shock is mirrored by Sinna's tiny gasp. Patrick rarely swears. "He's one of your own!"

Droma Wren used to say, "Leave your ideals in Tipa." She needed us to realize that the world was cruel, that caravanning wasn't some sort of lark. She needed us to be ready to do whatever it took to save our village. And whether I took her words to heart at first or not I soon saw with my own eyes that she was right; the world was cruel, and caravanning perhaps even crueler. How could Patrick still be so naïve as to believe that people would not be cruel to one another?

A small voice in my head reminds me that I had once relied on that innocence in order to not go insane during the long years. Apparently the innocence didn't save me if I have voices in my head though.

"No! _You_ listen to _me," _Patrick is back to yelling. "We'll stay out here if we have to. Just take him, please. Please. He's dying." His voice has softened again. "Please."

I don't even need to hear the next response to know what the answer will be. No.

I can't hide in the dark of the wagon anymore. I can't hide from this, or from what occurred before.

Once decided, not even cramped muscles and an aching body can deter me as I rise from my nest amidst the packs. The back flaps of the wagon are untied, afternoon sun streaming in to rest on Kin and Lian Cre. He appears to be asleep, but judging by the wary watchfulness Lian Cre exudes it has been a rough day. Kin's Cure Ring is prominent on her finger, the magicite refracting rainbows of color on the cloth walls.

Her eyes dart to me, a concerned expression crossing her face, but I have no time for that now. I stagger to the tail of the wagon, then gingerly lower myself to the ground.

It takes effort not to hobble, but I manage something of my usual gait as I approach the latest obstacle. In my best annoyed leader voice I ask, "What seems to be the problem?"

Sinna is actually relieved to see me. I shouldn't be so surprised by this, but I am. Since when did they rely on me to take charge, to make it all better?

I push these thoughts aside in order to listen intently to Patrick's side, then the gatekeeper's. While Patrick's explanation is succinct yet thorough, the guard's is even more so. No mark, no entry. Joy.

After both have finished, I make a great show of pondering the situation. In all honesty I already have something of a solution thanks to Patrick, now I just have to restrain the urge to throttle the moronic Yuke before me.

I clap my hands as if it has just come to me. "What if," I say, "We make a deal. You let Kindryth in for treatment, and we'll go find the Shella Mark we lost awhile back at the Sluice. If we're not back before, say, dawn, you don't have to let us in and you can keep Kin."

The gatekeeper thinks the deal over, then nods. It is, after all, in his favor entirely. Now if Amidatty had been here, he would have been out of a job, but I keep this thought to myself.

"Fine. But if you and your caravan do not return by dawn, do not bother at all. We will kill him."

"What?" Sinna takes a step back, hand falling automatically to the pommel of her sword. "Why?"

"He is not a friend of Shella, and is therefore an enemy. He will be treated as such should you not return."

It takes all the self control I have and more not to pummel the bastard to the ground, but I manage. "Thank you," I say through gritted teeth, before returning to the wagon.

Sinna and Patrick follow me to the back, where Kin is now awake. Lian Cre looks up at us impatiently. "Well?"

"He's in," I say, "But we've got to get a Shella mark. Listen, Kin, we're going to have to leave you here."

He nods. So far the sickness has only affected his lungs, so I'm not worried about whether he'll understand or not.

"If we're not back by a turn before dawn, you need to find a way to escape. The deal is a mark before dawn or your life is forfeit. We should be back with plenty of time to spare, but if we're not… assume the worst." I bite my lip, gaze locked on the slits in his visor, knowing he is looking back. "I'm sorry it's come down to this."

I don't think a quick trip to the sluice will kill us, but then again I once thought nothing of a quick stop at the Mushroom Forest or an overnight stay at Tida.

The bridge forms with an unearthly hum behind us. Already there are healers coming, distinctive in their robes. I move away from Kin, wincing as he begins to cough uncontrollably. Please, let them help him.

"We'll be back," Patrick says, voice as confident as ever. But we are none of us fools. All it takes is one look into his eyes to know he is afraid.

We all are, really. It's hard not to be, these days.


	9. Kindryth's Preparations

We don't see Kindryth for three days.

Shella is a wondrous place, and it's always great to stop in towns because it lets us get away from each other, but when you're as anxious as we were, the esoteric of the Yukes quickly loses its draw.

Funny enough, it isn't me who loses patience first. Nor is it Patrick, who got his year's worth of yelling out at the Yuke who guards the bridge. Even Sinna manages to remain calm, though I'm not sure if that is due to actually feeling calm or just feeling lost. I've certainly felt lost these past few days.

But no, it's Lian Cre, with a tongue sharper than a well honed blade that approaches one of the healers that day with an arrogant, "Well?"

We're all present, unable to shake the habit of standing within a few feet of each other. We're also surprised.

"Do you have need of me, miss?" Despite Lian Cre's glare he is surprisingly respectful. I decide then and there that I like this particular Yuke. That can always change though. For instance, if he refuses to give us Kin, I can just as easily decide that he would serve better as a hostage than a healer.

"You've had Kindryth hidden away for three days now. We'd like to see him." Her tone brooks no argument, and despite the chill mist rising off of the waterfalls she appears perfectly at ease in her fur lined wrap and feathered skirt. She makes a better Selkie than me--I'm taking advantage of Sinna's guilt, warm and cozy in her quilted red coat. (Maybe I am the better Selkie after all.)

He actually wrings his paws. That's when the worry turns into a near panic. To see such a gesture from a normally cool and collected tribe--something is terribly wrong.

"I am afraid you cannot. Kindryth is currently undergoing preparations for surgery. It is a delicate process, and must not be disturbed."

The word is foreign on my tongue, angry. "Surgery?" I can tell from the others' confused looks that it's new to them too. Good, I don't feel so stupid now.

He passes a massive paw over his visor, as if to check that last barrier. "He breathed too much of the miasma. The residue is… transforming his lungs. Our strongest Curagas can reverse the process for an extremely short time, but merely halting the process is not enough. The surgery will let us examine his lungs firsthand and perhaps give us the information needed to eradicate the miasma reside entirely."

It takes a long moment to process all of that. Strangely enough, Lian Cre once again finishes first. "So you're going to cut him open?" she asks, eyes wide in shock and horror.

Sinna makes a small, angry sound, and without thought I reach over to take her hand. She lets me, even grips at my fingers. "Did you ask him before you decided this, Healer?"

"Thanadril, miss. He gave his consent."

"And we weren't sent for?" she asks. "He didn't ask for us?"

"He did. Chief Healer Granady ordered he be kept in isolation, however, as even the smallest rise in blood pressure can cause the disease to spread quicker." The Yuke, Thanadril, looks around suddenly. "There is a chance your Kindryth may not survive the operation. I will let you speak to him, but you must promise not to excite him."

My appreciation for both this healer's sense of decency and Lian Cre's insistence on having her way grows. It's easy to promise not to excite Kin; he's nigh unflappable to begin with. "We promise."

"All right, then if you will please follow me?" Thanadril turns and heads to a large building set against the side of one of the many cliffs overlooking the village. We follow, but not without trepidation. We can't know how he'll be, not if the disease is eating him from the inside out.

* * *

The healer's sanctum reminds me of Selepation Cave. Both are oddly cool in temperature, and the walls of the room have that same blue green color of the cave's rock. For a moment I want to touch, but that urge disappears at Thanadril's next words.

"I will have to ask you to enter one at a time. He is still very weak." There is a small pause. "He will be Slowed."

At our apparent confusion he elaborates. "in order to prevent the rapid spread of the residue, we've had a healer apprentice casting Slow on him since the first night."

It's smart, I'll admit it willingly, but it also makes me all the more anxious. A sick, slow Kindryth is nothing like the Kin I know.

Perhaps that's why, when the healer looks at us and says, "Who will enter first?" and the others look to me, I don't volunteer my own name.

"Sinna," I say softly, "You go ahead."

She looks at me with those dark brown eyes, and suddenly it occurs to me that even after all these years she's still a mystery to me. I give her a smile of encouragement, and her own tentative smile in return surprises me. She hasn't smiled in days.

With a nod Thanadril beckons her to the door, then turns and heads to another one. "If you should require my assistance for any reason, I will only be a door away." He leaves without another word.

I don't know what goes on in that room. I can't tell what is being said as first Sinna, then Patrick, and then Lian Cre walk into that room and finally emerge. I don't know how Kin is, if he can even talk for lack of air and coughing.

When Lian Cre exits, I know I can't delay any longer. My legs are stiff from standing so still as I take my cue to enter Kin's room. Part of me wants to stop the moment, to step back and take a few breaths. I don't want to know why my friends (and they are friends, I've discovered this year, each and every one of them) have been giving me these sad, somber looks since leaving his room.

It is a very short twenty steps into the chamber, yet it seems to take far longer than that to get there. I look carefully at the green tiled floor as I enter. The door slams shut behind me, the creak of its hinges sudden and final.

Moments pass, but I still don't look up. If he's dying, I don't want to see him that way. Maybe it's selfish, but I want to remember him as our fearless leader. I want to remember him as strong and brave and wise. I don't want to picture him as I have seen him in this week. I want to see him the way I saw him on my first day. I want to hear him the way I heard him when he became our leader. I want to feel the way I did when he chose me as his second, like we were all invincible.

"Why do you not look at me, Zin Del?" comes his voice, slowed, tired, but still warm. "Are you afraid?"

"I'm not afraid of anything, and certainly not you, bird man," I say, and finally raise my eyes to his.

He laughs, a dry chuckle that soon turns into a cough. I rush to his side, hands patting at his paws and the loose sleeves of his tunic as if I can will my health into him. I can't, but the cough does abate, and I stop worrying if Thanadril and the healers will kick me out.

"Are you all right?" I ask when he is settled again, and could kick myself for asking that stupid of a question. He waves my question off with a flick of his fingerlike appendages, motioning toward the chair conveniently placed at his bedside. He has more important things to say.

"Zin Del," he said again, his massive paw covering my own hand, the soft fur tickling my skin. "Whether the surgery works or not, I'll never lead the caravan again."

My head shakes in denial but I know he's telling the truth. "No, Kin."

"Yes. You know this." His normally expansive way of speaking is gone, exchanged for short, blunt sentences. "Someone must lead them."

I bite my lip. "Patrick, then." He's the most well-balanced of us all. He'd make a good leader.

Kin lets out a sigh that gusts through the room, fixing upon me with an exasperation so palpable I can imagine the frown beneath his helm. "Patrick has neither the experience nor the necessary skills. Who saw what had to be done in the mines, and at Tida? Who made the decisions that brought us here?" A sound of denial emerges from my throat, after all, it's entirely debatable whether that argument is even in my favor, only to stop as he ignores my protests. "You are Tipa's best hope for a future."

Well, when he puts it like that.

"Don't interrupt," he urges me. "Just listen." I'm all ears now. "Read the chronicle. Read every page. You're smart, so smart, you'll understand."

It's the first time I've heard him contract his words together they way we do. From that alone I am speechless.

"Take care of them for me." He sighs again. "You're all so young. I feel terrible for leaving you this way."

My voice makes its comeback. "Don't. I'll take care of them, Kin. You know I will."

"I know. I trust you, Zin Del. You have been an incredible comrade… and an even better friend."

"Call me Zin." If anyone deserves to use my first name, it's Kindryth.

"You were the best second I could have asked for."

It is the highest compliment I can give. "You were a better leader than Droma."

"Truly, Zin Del." At my raised eyebrows he taps my hand. I can hear the smile in his voice, slow as his words and motions are.

"Your name is too beautiful not to use. Zin Del. I looked it up once. Colors of the desert dawn. Lovely. We Yukes are so focused on identifying that we never thought to describe things as they are. Sunrise colors. Beautiful."

It's not a common name, completely void of all sea references, but it's my name. And it never sounds as beautiful as the way it does echoing slightly from Kin's still present visor.

I don't want to see him without it, though. It will cheapen things somehow. I want to see him without his visor because he chooses for me to, not through circumstance or because he feels his time has run out.

Squeezing his paw is difficult, but I manage as best I can with my much smaller hands. "Does Kindryth mean something in your language?'

"Not that I know. It was the name of my father's father. I never met him, but it was said that he was a furious, fierce man."

Never before have I believed that a name can shape who we become, but seeing Kin laying there, still fighting even now, I can believe it. In his own quiet way, he is the most furious and fierce of us all.

"This isn't important," Kin interrupts my thoughts. "What is important--" Wracking coughs in turn interrupt him, and I can only catch a few words. "--The chalice. Chronicle!"

He begins to cough harder, the seemingly endless spasms of his body making me panic. How is he breathing?

The door slams open with a thud just as he begins to choke, and a regal looking Yuke wearing the fanciest robes I have ever seen strides in. Thanadril is close behind, completely incomprehensible due to the visor echoing his quick words.

"I gave strict orders!" the first Yuke snaps as a spell hums to life and settles on Kindryth's chest. Though I am torn between shouting, screaming, and collapsing right then and there under the sheer weight of everything we have lost in this past fortnight, something gives me the strength to rise and make my way to the door.

"Zin Del!" Kin manages to gasp just as I reach the door. "The letters!"

The new healer turns to me as his words once again dissolve into coughing. "Will you _please _leave?!"

I do, shutting the door behind me. Before me my friends stand, tense with worry.

"He'll be all right," I said, and try to make something of a smile.

They don't seem reassured. Maybe it's the grimace that I end up making instead. Or maybe it's the fact that the healer is still shouting, and now more Yukes are running toward the room, some of them already focusing spells. Either way, when we leave the sanctum it is a solemn group that returns to the inn and shuts themselves inside their rooms, and not one of us can manage a smile.


	10. No Other Option

Kin comes out of surgery, as they call it when they cut a person open and poke around at his insides, the exact same person he was before that terrible cough, though perhaps less long-winded.

We are gathered in the room once more, this time all of us together, when he taps at his chest with those long fingers and says, "They cut me right here, but there is no scar."

There's not much to say to that. Sinna nods. "We know."

"You do not," he says simply, tiredly. He taps his chest, covered by a healer's green tunic, again. "I would actually enjoy the scar, this time."

For a moment I really _don't_ understand. Most of us have very few scars. Kin has always been a natural at healing, even before he became the leader. The few marks I or the others have is due to either life before the caravan or to a very harsh wound and resources stretched thin. Why would he want a scar from this?

"They cut me open. They could not understand what was wrong, why the cough would not abate. They had to see it to know." Kin is nothing if not a gentleman. He doesn't make us wait for the answers. "My lungs are rotting. No, that is not quite the word. _Transforming_. You would not understand, the change of cells on such a molecular level, mutation." He takes a deep breath. "No, none of you scholars."

He searches for words as we try to comprehend the entirety of what he has just shared. Mutating? His body changing because of miasma exposure? All of us have been exposed to the miasma before. We've all breathed it, tasted the poison on our tongues. None of us have had this problem. And the people at--I wince at the thought--Tida, they didn't transform. They just died.

As my insides clench I have to remind myself that it was not my fault. That Tida's caravan, whomever they sent out that year, had been the ones to make the fatal mistakes in the field. That Tida's elders, whomever they had chosen to lead them, had been the ones to make the final mistakes in the village.

Sometimes it lessens the guilt. But only sometimes.

"I suppose I will just say what it is I mean to say. I am becoming a monster."

Our surprise is obvious, and Kindryth seems to relish in it. "It is a phenomenal discovery. I am the most popular subject of study in Shella." He coughs lightly, more a clearing of the throat than the full bodied spasms he had before. "Were I younger, I would be investigating the history behind this myself with all the intellect I possess."

He makes a gesture with his paws, a helpless 'Well, what do you do?' pose, and at that moment any horror I feel vanishes. It's just Kin, monster lungs or not, our crazy-eccentric gentle healer-killer Kin.

"So why is this happening to you?" Sinna asks from where she sits against a Selepation green wall. "I mean, wouldn't we have heard of this before now?"

Kin shrugs, something so alien for a Yuke that I know he got it from us. "From what the scientists babble, miasma exposure is relatively a mystery. Caravanners are too busy to be studied, and most others exposed are corpses. There are three theories we have settled on in our observations."

"I love it when you talk all smart," Patrick drawls in a spot on imitation of a wide-eyed bumpkin from Fum. He shifts to stand away from the wall. "But really, what's the likelihood of us being...afflicted?"

I haven't even thought of that. How many times have I walked into that poisonous fog? Too many to count. Am I, too, becoming a monster? Unconsciously Lian Cre puts a hand to her collarbone, and I know she is thinking the same thing.

"Very little," he answers, and with such authority that I find myself releasing the breath I hadn't known I was holding. My relief is echoed in Sinna's sigh and in the quick blinking of Lian Cre's eyes. Patrick relaxes enough to lean back against the wall.

"You're sure, then?"

"Am I certain of anything?" At our glances he huffs a laugh. "Of three theories, only two do I judge possible. The first, that I am a fluke, is entirely possible. The second, that anyone exposed will transform, is impossible. We would all be monsters then. The third, and most likely, that given enough exposure and incubation time transformation will occur, I find myself supporting."

It hits me with such force that I can't believe I didn't think of it before. Is this what became of Tida's caravan? Is this why they never returned?

"It is the incubation that is key. The subject must receive sufficient exposure, yet must remain living to allow the infection to spread completely. Truly fascinating. But no, not one of you a scholar." He sighs. "Truly fascinating."

"How long?" Sinna blurts out, hands twisting in her lap. She says nothing else, can't seem to bring herself to finish the question, but any of us could finish it for her. How long do you have until the transformation is complete? until you die? Are they even the same date?

Kindryth groans lightly, as if we've somehow frustrated him. "The trouble with being the first is the lack of precedents." At our confusion, "I do not know. Some estimate weeks based on the original rapid changes, some say months now that I am in a controlled setting, others posit years on the observation that the changes slowed beyond my lungs."

Weeks, months, years, no matter which, Kin will never travel with us again. He'll never ride on the tailgate of the wagon again, never heal our wounds or let out that low chuckle at Patrick's jokes. He'll never scold me for my recklessness, or congratulate me for what well laid plans I do make. He'll never celebrate another year of successful myrrh gathering. He'll probably never even see Tipa again.

This same realization seems to strike the others, judging by the mournful and downcast expressions they all wear. I swear I even see Patrick blink hard, as if to ward away tears, but the movement is gone too quickly to be certain.

"I will never lead the caravan again," Kin says slowly, an echo of his previous words to me, and though I know little to nothing about Yukes, I think he has grieved for this in his own way. "If you deem it acceptable, all of you, I would appoint Zin Del in my place."

No one objects outright, though Sinna raises an excellent point. "What did Roland think?" As the village elder, he does have a say in the doings of the caravan. He is the one who chooses the leader, after all.

"If I waited on the King of Alfitaria and that man to rule on my decisions, we would be long out of time," Kin says so harshly I'm taken aback by the scorn that drips from his voice. "They would dither over _politics_ while we fight."

There is no reply to that, and Kin gives a sigh when a knock sounds at the door. Healer Thanadril curls his long fingers around the door frame and looks in. "Chief Granady will have my hide for a new robe if I do not request politely that you leave now," he says apologetically. "We have more tests to perform, I am afraid."

I find it hard not to like him, and smile at him understandingly as we all hoist ourselves into standing positions. Kin stops me with a tap on my bare shoulder. "If you would return later?" he asks casually, but I know that what we'll discuss will be anything _but_ casual.

* * *

"Listen to me carefully, Zin Del, as we do not have much time." He beckons me further into the dimly lit room, gestures for me to close the door. With only one small lantern to give light, the place seems much more sinister, a prison rather than a recovery room.

I feel like a puppet with its strings cut, uncertain what happens next in the script. And it's true, he's the one orchestrating this scene. "All right, but--"

"No, _listen._ You must take them through the sluice. Forget the mountain stronghold, there's no time for that now." He ignores the way my jaw drops slightly. He's obviously predicted my reactions.

"Kindryth, you can't mean it. That's suicide. You know what they _do_ to myrrh thieves?" In my mind the image of a dank, cold dungeon appears, stone walls and floor with a hint of straw in the corner to serve for bedding. Of course, that's only the temporary fixings. It only gets worse from there.

"I have already written the letters to Min Doran and his caravan. They will not get the letters until it is too late, but the mountains are close enough to their destination to satisfy them. Not enough to make them happy, but that is impossible this late in the year."

Wonderful. He's got it all figured out, has he? "The _last_ group I want to mess with is Alfitaria. You might hate politics, but even you know that schedule's the only thing keeping us from backstabbing and cornering ourselves into extinction. Do you _want_ Tipa blacklisted from myrrh trees?"

"Zin Del," he says, as if that will stop my tirade.

"Do you _want_ us to die?"

As if I didn't hear him say my name the first time, "Zin Del."

"Because really, I could just hold a mass suicide as my first order of business. Have everyone jump right off one of the bridges here."

"Are you going to listen to what I have to say or not? Really, you are trying my patience." Everything about him is haughty in that moment, from the stiff posture to the imagined raised eyebrow.

"I'm sorry," I say, not sorry at all.

"Look at the clock, there, on the wall. Do you know what it does? It denotes time." Following his gaze, I laugh slightly, a sound that has absolutely no joy in it.

"Wow, _thank you_ for that amazing lesson in magic technology, Kin. Gods, I feel so educated now!"

"How much time do we have left in the year?" He refuses to rise to the bait, and I know I've lost.

I pause, counting the days in my mind. "Not enough. Not enough for both the mountains and the cave. We've been here too long. We knew it might happen when we brought you here, but breaking schedule?"

"It is the only way now," he sounds so solemn and sad that I know it's the truth. There really is no way to go through both the mountains and the cave and return to Tipa in the allotted time. Especially now that so much time has passed. The mountains are difficult even in the best of seasons, in spring, with the snowmelt floods coming any day now, I dare not take my caravan through there.

Strange how easily they became _my_ caravan.

"You know, when Roland went off on his speech about having to give up everything for the village, I didn't think my status as a law abiding citizen was also up for grabs." I say it glibly, but I mean it. Never did I imagine myself mounting the platform in Traitor's Square.

"Will you do it?"

The most important question of all. Years ago when I gave my oaths, did I mean each and every word I said? To give up not only life and time, but everything else I possessed?

"Only if you promise to write letters pleading for my release rather than execution."

He laughs, the low chuckle I'm so familiar with not soothing at all. "...I believe I am capable of that."

"Good." I feel slightly nauseated. I can already picture the rope about my neck, the eager folk standing in the square awaiting my death. Myrrh thieves are the worst criminals of all.

Beneath the helm that is pointed in my direction I can only imagine the twisted grin that lights his features as he gestures to the clock that hangs on the wall, still marking each moment we spend together. "Time is wasting. Tick tock, caravanner, tick tock."

* * *

Thus ended the three-hundred-and-twenty-sixth caravan of Tipa, under the leadership of Kindryth the Yuke, son of Khalet and Ayarima.

* * *

Mist lays heavy over the smooth stone paths of Shella, a few lone crystals providing the only light on this path, far from the main crystal. My steps echo oddly despite the soft tread of my boots, scuffs rebounding off the water slicked cliff, traveling back to me as if from a distance. Were I not the only one awake on this chill, dark night, I would truly believe that someone is walking to meet me.

As it is, I feel like a ghost. No one else walks the roads this lonely night, all snug in their homes with the lantern wicks snuffed and the blankets pulled high. The business district is more silent than a grave, and with the moon rising large and yellow beyond the cliffs I can't help but recall my mother's tales of witches and red moons rising.

The inn is well lit, at least, enough to dispel the vague fears those memories bring. A warm, golden glow shines beyond the distorted window panes, and I shove the door open in my haste to get out of the cold.

Immediately I spot the others. They lounge about the common room, all frozen in comical poses. Lian Cre stares wide eyed at my damp appearance, a mug of ale paused halfway on the journey to her lips. Sinna, whose fingers trace aimlessly over the worn bindings of the chronicle, has already noted my appearance and gone back to her reading. Patrick can't help but gape.

"Take a swim tonight?" he asks, and I roll my eyes at him.

"We're leaving tomorrow," I tell them, and ignore their varied reactions as I head to the kitchens. Perhaps the cook will have left some porridge heating on the fire. I dearly love porridge, after all. And it's better than listening to them talk.

I'm not afraid of what they have to say. Of course not!

Well, maybe a little afraid. Or a lot. But at least there is porridge, and it has cream to go with it.

* * *

My elbow jams into the snout of a lizard man even as I slam my racket into another's leg. It hisses, prods with its scimitar, but I leap backwards out of range.

Bad move. In my eagerness to evade the strike I leap too far, stumbling into Lian Cre and knocking the chalice from her grasp. It tips ever so slowly, and from my sprawled position I watch my horror mirror hers.

Please, don't let that crystal break. if it breaks we die, plain and simple. Linked to the tiny crystal shard is a spell that keep the myrrh safe. Broken, we will lose more than our lives, we will lose our myrrh.

More than our lives. It's true. Those precious few drops are worth more than all of us. So it's no surprise that I can't let out more than a croak as that sacred vessel falls.

It hits the ground with a soft thunk, the myrrh swishing lightly within its invisible sphere, both sounds louder in my ears than anything I've ever heard in my life. Miraculously, it remains one pure, unshattered whole.

My sigh of relief turns into a scream as a scimitar suddenly pierces my hand. The pain is intense, paralyzing--I want to curl around my hand and shout myself hoarse--but before thought can get in the way I'm up, I'm standing, I'm raising my racket, maybe I'm screaming but there is blood spattering from more than just my attacks and the sickening sound of a racket cracking through bone and meeting the squishy resistance of innards, and suddenly there is nothing but me, me and my racket and my hand that might as well be on fire for the sheer agony.

Coolness floods through my veins, strokes delicately at the split in my hand as it reconnects my dangling thumb and forefinger. She's a magical prodigy, that Sinna, and though there is an obvious seam where the separation occurred, my hand is once again usable. I don't mind scars all that much anyway.

"All right now?" she asks, Kin's Cure Ring tight in one fist and a gory sword in the other. Across the circle Patrick duels the second lizard man while Lian Cre lifts the chalice to an upright position. "You scared me." Mild words from such a wild visage, I think as Sinna wipes a splash of blue green lizard blood from her cheek, only smearing the mark even more.

Patrick finishes off his foe with such a sloppy downward chop that I wince for the monster's sake. He didn't even bother to severe the head, though both arms lay scattered about their arena. Gruesome is probably the best description, considering I'm fairly sure that's intestines spilling out over its belt. Usually he makes such clean, merciful kills.

Catching my gaze as he uses the lizard man's scales to wipe the blue green muck from his blade, he frowns. "I was worried," he offers by way of explanation. He kneels to rifle through the corpse's belt pouch. "20 gil, what a rip off."

We're spread apart enough that when the shriek sounds through the air, none of us are able to reach each other. A griffin, fully grown and mad as a Lilty who's just been told that the Yukes won The Great War lands between us, buffeting me aside with one wing as it lunges for Lian Cre.

Two strikes to the face with her racket send the thing reeling back, startled by the quick and vicious response. I'm surprised too, but far more pleasantly than the bird, which tries to score her with its talons. She barely dodges that one, and I curse at myself for not remembering to remind_ them_.

Her failure to recall the extra danger is covered by both Sinna and myself; our attacks to either side confuse the damn thing long enough for Lian Cre to scramble back to her feet. She takes a stance, bashing at the beak, which she _does_ remember is a particular weak point.

The griffin is leaping from side to side now, trying to evade the three pronged attack even as it seeks an opening. I'm distracted for a crucial second by a flash of brown--_Patrick?_--and cuffed so hard by a wing that I roll rump over head toward the edge of the circle.

"No!" comes the strangled cry, and Patrick is there, between the griffin in me, sword cleaving through the griffin's shoulder with a violent stroke. Blood sprays from the side of its neck as it gurgles a dying scream and slumps to the ground. Sinna steps in to finish the deed from the other side, as his cut is so deep he has trouble yanking the blade from the bone.

"Little early in the year for griffins, isn't it?" I ask solely to break the silence. No one answers, not that I expect them to.

For a moment we all stand there, catching our collective breath, when Patrick makes a sudden move toward one of the rock ledges. "Thought so," he says after a moment. "Moogle house. Think he'll be welcoming?"

"As far as I'm concerned, if he doesn't try to kill us, then he's welcoming," Lian Cre says wearily before stumbling inside the thin crevice.

We don't bother knocking, but the sound of our clanking armor wakes him all the same. "Oh!" chirps the little moogle who, much like his kin, has decided to stake a claim out in the middle of nowhere. "I didn't expect to see you lot this year, kupo!" He sounds slightly disappointed.

Patrick seems to pick up on that particular nuance. "Yeah, well, get over it."

I stifle a laugh as he sprawls out in front of the fire, trying in vain to dry his wet shirt and ignoring the moogle's squeals of indignation about the dripping water warping his wood floors. Sinna had 'accidentally' tripped her twin earlier, sending him straight into one of the many hot springs. It's something easily forgotten in the heat of battle, but beyond that, well, Patrick gets a little cranky.

"That's not very Clavat of you," I tease, dropping onto one of the many cushions littering the floor. I can hear Sinna already rattling around in the poor moogle's cupboards. If her brother's grouchy when wet, she's even worse when hungry.

He sighs. "What would you know, Selkie?"

Sometimes I hate his sharecropping pacifism preaching monster killing hypocritical mediating Clavat guts.

I yawn, jaw popping as it stretches to accommodate the sound. Last night held little sleep for me. Too many worries, too many strange dreams. I lean against another cushion. Surely a nap won't hurt?

Consciousness arrives as a blanket settles over my shoulders, warm hands tucking the corners around my body, ignoring my muttered thanks. Somehow I've ended up atop the moogle's incredibly large bed. Part of me insists on struggling to sit up, then subsides as Patrick runs a callused hand across my forehead, brushing the strands of hair that linger there away.

"Thanks," I say again, the word coming a bit clearer this time.

"Any time," he says, and sometimes, sometimes I love him, for all that he is a dirt digging Clavat.

* * *

The sun is just barely shining over the eastern miasma stream when we reach the wagon. It's been at least three days, I think, though it's hard to tell in moogle homes.

Though my arms shake with weariness, the added weight of the chalice is incredibly welcome. I know I'm grinning like an idiot, can feel my cheeks starting to ache and see my expression mirrored in the others' triumphant faces, but a run this victorious deserves it.

Climbing aboard takes far more effort than it did the morning we left Shella. I put the chalice up on the driver's box first, then haul my body up over the wheel and halfway into the back. Lian Cre halfheartedly pushes my legs upward, then pulls herself up as well, grunting in pain. We are the last ones up. For a moment we lay sprawled across the bench, too tired to move let alone prepare to leave.

At last I clamber into an upright position. "Roll you for driving duty," I say, pulling my loaded dice from their pouch on my bandolier and shaking them suggestively at Sinna, who at least looks marginally human.

"Don't bother tricking me," she says. "I'll do it." Lowering herself into something resembling a seated pose she says, "Don't forget to strap the chalice in."

Like I could forget _that. _I mean, really, do I think or dream about anything else these days?

A tanned hand that waves Lian Cre and myself into the back of the wagon ruins that little thought for me. I'm not that much of a one track mind. Besides, there's only so much worrying I can really do. In the end, I've just got to trust that we'll be all right. So what if we're breaking schedule and are now wanted criminals? So what if we can't seem to keep our caravan safe and sound? So what if we've only got three and a half months--four and a half if we use our grace period--left to gather another drop, cross three miasma streams, two plains, a peninsula and a river? So what if we're all scared out of our minds that we might fail?

We'll be all right. There's simply no other option.

* * *

And that, child, is how I became the leader of Tipa's caravan.

Someone had to do it.

* * *

**End of Arc 1, _Rising Sun_  
**


	11. The Fourth Lesson

Though the loss of Kin as our leader had hit us hard, we were still a decently experienced caravan. I myself was in my sixth year, Patrick and Sinna in their fourth, and though Lian Cre was only in her first, the rest of us had the skill and general know how to make up for it.

We took Selepation Cave right on Midsummer's Day, skipping the festival to the twins' annoyance, two and a half months after departing from Shella. Kin's advice came in the form of constant letters, the mail moogles catching up to us in the evenings when we halted. We trained furiously in those months, as much to grow used to our new roles as to bring Lian Cre up to par. We still weren't the best, but we were good enough. Given enough time, we would again become the well oiled clockwork Tipa's caravan had once been.

Our speed in getting to Shella to begin with had helped negate some of the time we spent there, but we were still behind. We had multiple mail moogles pursuing us, despite my reassurances to Roland that we would _be there, damn it, now stop writing to me._

The race home was marked by few incidences, though I really did feel terribly guilty for running that poor little mail moogle over. I didn't know he was holding another one of Roland's letters, honest. We rolled into Tipa two weeks into our grace period with cries of "Welcome!" and "Took you long enough!" After the first time, it wasn't as funny as everyone thought it was.

Still, we had two weeks to rest, and we would make the most of it. Of course, the following two weeks weren't exactly restful.

* * *

**The Fourth Lesson **

**Faith**

* * *

Faith is a powerful tool, whether you choose to believe it or not. All caravans traveled by faith, especially in the days following Tida. If the sunniest village in the world could fall, so could us all.

You have to understand, I may seem superstitious and crazy to you as the tale progresses, but when I was your age, the only things I trusted in were the comrades at my back and the worn racket in my hand.

In time, I came to realize that there was more beyond this world than anyone beyond Shella had ever imagined. I began to trust others, to believe in all the stories I'd ever heard, and, yes, to have a little faith on long shots.

* * *

Roland practically shrinks beneath my glare despite his authority "At least they're trained?" he offers, gesturing to the two children who are supposed to be awaiting my inspection. And they are children, barely sixteen cycles and squabbling like ones much younger.

"Althea!" the boy protests as the girl--they look fairly alike, I can already see the problems starting--slams his visor down on his helm. The rest of his words are unintelligible but the tone of complaint is not.

"No," I say. "No." Backing away with my hands raised, I emphasize my refusal. "Absolutely not."

The village elder frowns. "You're underrepresented, they volunteered, and it's increasingly likely that you and the twins will retire at the same time. Do you want to leave Tipa in such a disadvantaged situation a few years from now?"

For all that he's a tad heavy-handed when it comes to caravan dealings, Roland is a sharp man. He's used to assessing people with only a second's glance, and he's damn good at it. He knows what to say to manipulate me.

Despite realizing the ongoing influence, I can't deny the truth in his words. Besides, our caravan hasn't had a Lilty member since Droma Wren retired and named Kin her successor.

Politics. Kin took care of that once, now I must. I sigh. "Well, let's see what young, ah," I raise my eyebrows at Roland, "What are their names?"

"Alder is the boy, Althea is the she-devil," his lips quirk into a grin. He is missing some of his teeth. "As a former hellion you should do fine."

"That was one time," I remind him crossly. "Years ago."

He pats me on the shoulder. "What else are the elderly for but to humiliate the young?" he asks, not expecting an answer, and at my snort his face grows serious. "Alder is the blacksmith's son, Althea his niece. If she gives you any serious trouble feel free to leave her at Alfitaria, you've got Moschet Manor second on the list this year."

"Second?" I say after a moment, still watching the two Lilties roll around in the dirt in a mock battle. Oh, _that's_ a good hit! The girl, Althea, is more aggressive, but the boy packs a mean right hook. "What's third?"

Having been in constant correspondence with the other villages for the past month organizing the year's schedule, I know Roland has something arranged. He sighs and runs a hand through his ever graying beard, and my limited knowledge of body language tells me that the news is not so good.

"I specifically requested Goblin Wall for your first stop," he says. "They had a bad year last cycle and I'm hoping a caravan stopping in will distract them from our fields." A useless hope, but reasonable enough to assume that we can at least whittle down their numbers significantly. "Moschet Manor was all that was left this side of the Jegon, so that's second. And third, well...you have to understand, Alfitaria is angry you took the myrrh at the sluice. It was _completely_ irresponsible. Really, what were you thinking?"

I shrug, letting the words slide off of me. Kin's life is worth a few angry sproutheads. "What's third?"

"I couldn't get anything better," he warns. "You'll have to take the ferry to the Lynari Desert."

"Lynari? As in the Leuda Isle Lynari?" I ask, incredulous, and at his nod, "Lynari! With two greenies and a first year? Does Alfitaria want us to die?"

He shakes his head in a dismissive gesture that sends white hot rage shooting down my veins. "You broke the rules, Zin Del. We had last choice. You're lucky we had a choice at all."

Two new recruits and one of the harshest places in the world, and I'm lucky?

There is a clatter of armor as both Lilties tumble into the stone base of the crystal, yelling all the while. I sigh. If I can turn their attentions to monsters, maybe they won't be half bad.

The sigh turns into a snort. Who am I kidding? With our recent luck, this is likely to be the first in a string of disasters.

* * *

Althea is still looking me over, has been sizing me up since I met the twins before the crystal. She really is a hellion, though they give the boy too much credit. He's worse than she is, I can see in an instant, if only because he hides it better. We'll have our hands full with them.

"So I'm assuming you're properly kitted," I said, nodding towards the forge, "But you're going to want extra clothing. Shirts, breeches, underclothes, your winter gear. We'll be up in the highlands for winter. There's not much snow but it's bitterly cold."

The two nod and I make a mental note to mention this all to Alder's father. There's no telling what they'll remember from all of this.

"The King of Alfitaria did us no favors this year. Normally I'd take you both through the River Belle or the Mushroom Forest as a first stop." As memories of our last walk through the giant fungi arise so does sorrow, and I decide against the place. Not now. Not yet. "Instead we'll be heading to Goblin Wall. You know why," and if Althea doesn't, Alder certainly will.

With that explained, I can't think of much else to say. I'm fairly certain I covered all the basics. We have a week of relaxation left; anything I missed can be covered at some point.

Two greenies, Lynari, and a new leader. How I wish Kin were here to lead me now. How I wish I were still just his second.

Even Roland hears my sigh, and he pats me lightly on the shoulder. "Very well," he says, nodding to the children. "You'll do us proud."

Something about the way he's not looking at the two when he says it makes me think that maybe, just maybe, he might have a little faith in me, too.

* * *

The night of the rejuvenation ceremony, dark clouds gather and hide the stars from view. Even the moon dares not show itself in the face of such an impending storm. The air is thick with the electricity in the air, the buzzing whispers of the crowd only adding to the tension. They gather thickly behind us, pressing closely in order to witness this annual miracle.

We stand proud, the four of us, torches in hand. Behind us stands Anjalya, Kindryth's younger sister. She, too, carries a torch in her large paws, for our comrade who couldn't stand with us today.

(A year ago, Lian Cre stood behind us in Trin Mar's place. Tonight she stands beside me, eyes glistening in the firelight as the ceremony progresses. I don't ask. None of us do.

Sometimes grief is too private to be shared.)

Words heavy with age and destiny fall from Roland's lips, a language I don't speak, but know in the way I know my mother's touch. The language of the old ones, used to bathe the crystal in purifying myrrh. The sacred tongue, as ancient and instinctive as a baby kicking in recognition of its mother's voice.

"So mote it be!" Roland cries at last, the crystal suddenly glowing a pure, brilliant light. Below it the shard gleams, a short blinding streak across my vision. The crowd behind us is deathly silent at the spectacle. I close my eyes against the glare, waiting for the brilliance to fade.

It doesn't, and suddenly I am far, far away from Tipa.

* * *

_"__Zin Del,"_ a voice whispers, echoing through my entire body. In that instant it's as if every pump of my heart muttered those two syllables and every rush of blood through my veins whispered those words.

_"__Zin Del,"_ and this time the voice is louder, echoing beyond me, the musical noise bouncing around some great chamber. A strange mixture of tinkling bells and soft lullabies, it's both incredibly familiar and intensely foreign.

_"__Zin Del!"_ it calls, and I open my eyes to the blue of a sky I have never seen beyond the miasma's taint.

"Zin Del!" the sound is rougher now, and something grabs my arm. I reach for my racket, but it's gone and I turn the motion into a strike--

* * *

"Damn it!" Patrick hollers as I chop his wrist, immediately releasing my arm. I look around, bewildered, as he sinks back to his haunches. "Well, she's just fine," he calls to the pressing crowd. "No need to worry about that one."

My mother rushes in, having finally worked her small stature past the others. "Baby, what happened? Are you ill? Do I need to have Roland delay the caravan for a few days?"

At first, I'm startled. My mother hasn't been around to tend my injuries for six years. And then I melt beneath her concern, beneath the way her fingers brush my forehead soothingly as she looks me over. "Ma," I say, unable to keep from smiling, "I'm all right." I turn to look at Patrick, who still crouches beside me and relay my mother's query. "What happened?"

"You fainted during the really bright part," he says. "Lian Cre managed to grab you, and you both dropped your torches. Be glad she did get you, otherwise you would have been squashed by the crowd," he nods sharply toward the happily dancing group around the crystal. "They didn't even wait for their sight to return before they all ran forward, the fools."

I touch his arm, stroking the smooth skin bared by his shirtsleeve. It would have been impossible for Lian Cre to carry me over here. "Patrick, thank you. And thank her for me." The Selkie is nowhere in sight.

He nods, then rises to his full height. "When you feel better, come find me," he says, then casts a short look at my mother before returning his gaze to me. His eyes are dark. "I'll save a dance for you," he adds and then turns away, disappearing into the crowd with ease.

My mother eyes the place where he vanished with interest. "The rancher's son, Zin?" Her tone is far too curious and even a bit smug.

"He's a mean hand with a sword, Ma," I offer. "And you should see him cast a spell."

"I think I just did," she says, and the look she offers me has nothing but wickedness in it.

I roll my eyes.

* * *

We manage to leave on schedule, despite my mother's concerns and the storm setting in with a vengeance. I can barely hear Roland's customary farewell over the sound of the heavy rain and distant thunder. The villagers, who normally see us off by waving until we are out of sight, only emerge onto their doorsteps to call goodbyes as we trundle past their homes.

Only my parents and sisters, the twins' parents and brother, and Alder's father emerge into the downpour. They watch us pack, occasionally offering advice and pressing more food, more clothing on us. Though the blacksmith is short and foul-tempered with the rain, he claps me firmly on the back and tells me to watch out for his boy, his niece.

"Of course," I say, shocked he would even have to ask.

"No," the man says, blue eyes crinkled with laughter. "I don't mean keep 'em safe, they'll do fine at tha' on their own. I mean _watch out for them_." He actually grins when my eyes widen with understanding and I can't help but smirk. Like I'd let greenies get the best of me. "They're nasty when they've got a mind to it. Taught 'em everythin' they know."

"Yeah, right, old man!" calls the scratchy voice of Althea, her head emerging from the tightly battened down wagon. "We taught ye a thing or two!"

He laughs, his grim visage suddenly lit up with delight. I can suddenly see the father he must be inside the house, the father that would allow his niece to call him names. "Get ye back in the wagon, lass! Ye'll be fair drowned out here if'n ye don't!"

Watching them makes me suddenly look for my own family. They stand farther back from the rest, Pou Kel and Yun Soh, Sia Noh and Yis Dah. They look lonely.

My father sees me looking back to them, and extends his arms in a gesture I know so very well. I don't even hesitate, though it might be considered undignified for a caravan leader to act so impulsively.

I dash across the remaining space and leap into my father's arms, flinging my own around his shoulders so that he can spin me around the way he did decades ago. The world blurs as we turn, greens and browns and blues flashing, with the occasional purple of my mother's and sister's hair and the pink and white of my other sister's mouth as she shrieks and laughs at the water my hair flings at them.

At last he sets me down, chilled hands on my shoulders. "We'll miss you," he says simply, and my family closes around me in one last, sodden embrace.

"And I, you," I whisper.

My mother presses her palm to my cold cheek. "Be safe."

I nod, though that is not the life I signed up for.

* * *

Once again, I leave everything I love behind.

Seven years ago I thought it would be old hand by now, walking away from my home and family. In some ways I wish I were so carefree. In some ways I'm grateful I'm not.

Not far from the village the hard packed road turns to slop along the sides, and after only a few hours of travel the wagon squelches into a muddy rut and stays there, rain still tapping at the various puddles and our --thankfully waterproofed--canvas roof.

Patrick smartly removes his boots and socks and rolls up his breeches before leaping from the driver's box to inspect the mess. His feet immediately sink to the ankle, and I groan as I tug off my own boots and stockings.

"Well now," Patrick calls from beyond the wood and canvas barrier, and I move to the tailgate to exit as well. He's picked up the Fum drawl of his parents even in the fortnight we've been back, but soon enough we'll all start to blend into our normal talk. Kin was always the worst with this, unable to drop his formal mode of speech for several weeks.

I slide off the tailgate and also land calf deep in the mud. It squishes between my toes as I wiggle them. "Can we get out or should we wait it out?"

Patrick looks to the sky, then to both horizons as he contemplates the question. Then he bends down to look once more at the wheels, and then at our papaopamus, who is splattered with the glop. "I reckon," he starts, then shakes his head. "Sorry. I'm thinking that we're just going to have to slog through it. Won't do any good to stay in it. If we dig out some of the mud from in front of the wheels, then help push and pull, I think we'll be out of this fairly soon."

Relaying this to the others has them piling out of the wagon at their own pace, with only Althea dallying, wrinkling her nose distastefully at leaping into the mud.

"Sissy," Alder mutters audibly, and Althea quickly emerges, disgust evident at the way the mud reaches past her knees.

With only one actual shovel, another two are quickly improvised from pots tied to the Lilties' lances. Both insist on shoveling first, worried for their weapons. I take the actual shovel, with all of us switching when we begin to ache.

After I have just been switched back into shoveling, Patrick calls a halt to the operation. "Let's try to get out," he suggests, moving forward to take the lead reins. The rest of us dutifully troop back to the tailgate.

"One," I shout, knowing Patrick will hear my bellow with ease. "Two!"

On "Three!" we all throw ourselves into the wagon, Patrick shouting verbal commands. The wagon begins to roll forward slightly, slightly--then stops.

"Alder, Althea, get up here and dig!" the Clavat shouts, and I'm glad he's so good with names because I probably would have just called them sproutheads for lack of a better term. The two immediately duck out from where they had squeezed between the rest of us, and soon I can see mud flying past the corner of the wagon.

"Again!" shouts Patrick, and we all strain ourselves against the wooden bulk. It moves, the wheels making horrible squelching sounds, but it moves! Heartened, we dig our heels in and _push_.

With a massive, sucking sound the wagon breaks free of the rut, rolling back up onto the annoying but not particularly deep mud of the banks. The Lilties cheer and even Lian Cre claps both Sinna and I on the back. Sinna leans on me as we walk around the wagon.

We are mud splattered and disgusting looking, and I can feel the grime setting in. "Let's get off the road," I say. "Stream nearby?"

"Not far," Sinna says, and points to a copse of trees not a quarter of a mile away. I nod, and Patrick climbs back onto the driver's box. Alder is about to climb onto the tailgate when I pull him back by his collar.

"Nobody goes in there until we're all clean," I order. He bites his lip, then nods. What can I say? I keep a clean house.

We make camp not far from the road, for fear that going farther might get us stuck again. Our first act as a caravan this year, beyond freeing the wagon, is to take the chalice to the stream for a group bath. We're so filthy that no one even bothers to strip down. The clothing is sodden anyway.

* * *

Come morning, the rain is gone and we all heave sighs of relief. We're already unified, I think as I take on my regular morning chore of making breakfast, and then realize that the minute those two aren't exhausted I'll likely find all sorts of disgusting things in my bedroll.

Laughter erupts from the driver's box of the caravan and I look over to see Alder hopelessly tangled in the reins, his robin's egg eyes wide with shock as our papaopamus slowly licks him from chin to eyebrow. Patrick is collapsed over the seat, a hand across his forehead as if he were about to faint, laughing himself silly.

Sinna begins to scold her brother from where she stands on the tailgate of the wagon, hanging our wet clothes from the rafters. Of course Althea quickly misunderstands the target and jumps in to defend her cousin from where she is scrubbing the dried mud from the caravan sides. Feminine voices argue back and forth as Lian Cre approaches me from the side, eyeing the carnage and my carefully blank expression in turns. Her steps squelch gently on the still muddy ground.

"An interesting start," she offers, a quirk to her own lips as our papaopamus begins to munch gently on the hapless Lilty's sprout.

"That's one way to put it."

Perhaps I'm not leaving _everything _I love.

I think about this as we gather around the small fire to eat. The porridge is warm and filling. Patrick ruffles Alder's sprout and Sinna is all smiles. Even Lian Cre manages to grin at the Lilty boy's crestfallen expression when he learns that getting stuck isn't exactly a rare occurrence, particularly during the autumn rains. I can't help but laugh when his face falls further when Althea mentions the snow we'll get on the Alfitarian highlands.

Perhaps I'm taking some of it with me.

As I look beyond the chalice circle to the miasma blurred horizon beyond, this thought is both comforting and at the same time absolutely terrifying.


	12. Stories, Luck, and Sheer Gall

I can't stop dreaming of the girl in white.

She sits in the blue chamber, well, floats really. She looks up at the stars that hover above this place, sometimes, a hundred thousand pinpricks of longing. She looks at me sometimes, but not often. She is waiting. I don't know how I know this, but I do. She waits for someone, or something.

She is patient, this girl in white. She is used to waiting.

I don't know how I know this, either.

* * *

By the time we reach Marr's Pass, I want to throw Althea out the back of the wagon. We don't even have to halt, really, I think as we trundle through the crystal's barrier. She could roll boots over sprout until she came to a stop in the dirt. Someone else could deal with her.

But no, Sinna is sitting on the tailgate and she looks at me all too knowingly. Raising my eyebrows entreatingly only gets me a shake of her head. Looking forward to where Patrick is showing Alder the ropes of driving the caravan, literally, only gets me another shake of the head from where he looks back over the smaller boy.

Damn the pacifists and their twin ennui. I look to where Lian Cre reclines between two sets of packs with her back to the opposite side. From her comes an enthusiastic nod. That's the reason I'm keeping her around.

I look back at Patrick, and this time Alder is turned to look at me. He nods as well.

"Really?" I ask him, leaning forward to keep my voice low. If I can sway Patrick to my side, that gives me a clear majority to toss Althea out.

"Aww, I knew it!" he cries, looking between all of us sitting in the wagon. "I hate it when you guys do that 'silent-experienced-caravanner' communicating stuff!"

So he didn't know what we'd been discussing. I sigh. There goes my plan to get rid of her by vote. With another soft noise of exasperation I mentally cross off that option on the Plans To Get Rid of the Pest list, as well as any idea that Sinna would be around to witness.

She smiles when I glance once more out the back of the wagon. "Alfitaria." She reminds me with just one word that I'm not allowed to get rid of caravanners at will anymore.

Well, if I leave the sprout in Alfitaria, I can't just stop there. Kin's already in Shella. I can leave the twins at the Fields of Fum, Alder at Marr's Pass, Lian Cre in Leuda, and have Tipa all to myself. This will sound like a bad idea later, I'm sure, but right now I'm imagining having the whole wagon to myself. It's nice and quiet: too quiet.

* * *

What Roland forgot to advise me on all those years ago: Not only can't you live with your fellow caravanners after awhile, but you also can't live without them. Each year I can't wait to get home, and each year in Tipa when I wake with nightmares it's them I call out for, look for, reach for.

Like tonight, when I wake in the darkness of the Marr's Pass inn gasping. Silvery light, a combination of the gibbous moon and crystal's glow, floods through the window, passing over the hills and wrinkles of blanket to reflect dully off my discarded belt. I rise from the bed and pad barefoot to the door. It opens with a creak, a few candles flicker up and down the hallway.

The wooden boards are worn beneath my feet, the few rugs threadbare and far apart. A dim light shines down the hall, I follow it to the source.

Patrick dangles haphazardly over a large armchair, reading the chronicle by light of several candles. If he leans back any further, his hair will help illuminate the page too.

"Don't lean back," I suggest, startling him so badly he nearly lights his head on fire anyway.

Patrick sits up finally, closing the book partially and rubbing his eyes. "Hey, Zin."

"Why do we pay for a room you never even sleep in?" I don't expect an answer. After dragging a comfortable chair to face his, I collapse into it, flopping my feet onto his lap. He takes the less than subtle hint, digging his thumbs into the heel of my right foot and massaging the aches away.

We sit together for a few moments, during which he switches to the instep and I try to recall whether that little furrow between his brows is permanent or just a feature of tonight. His brown hair curls ever so slightly over his forehead as he bows his head to focus on the massage, and I have to clasp my hands to keep from testing whether his hair is as soft as it appears to be.

"I feel like we're missing something," he says at last, hands stilling as he looks at the worn leather cover of the chronicle. Normally I would bid him continue the massage with a gentle nudge of my foot, but the urge to hear this thought to its very end keeps me still.

His lips twist to one side as he bites the inside of his cheek. "It's not just us, either. All the caravans are," he assures me, and I stop my confused trip through my recollection trying to discover what he meant. If Amidatty missed it, then I never had a chance.

"What is it about?" I dare to ask when Patrick pauses again, gaze on my kneecaps but mind much farther away from this room. He's not the type to say something if he didn't have an idea.

He glances up at my face, then at the book. "It's hard to explain," he says, and I know he'll try anyway because I'll throttle him if he doesn't. Nobody, not even Patrick, gives me an excuse that flimsy this early in the morning. "We have all these scholars with all these theories on where myrrh, monsters, and miasma came from. But as I've been reading through here, it seems to me that we already _know_ where miasma came from."

"You mean the legends?" I'm a Selkie by tribe and a cynic by nature. If it were anyone other than another caravanner telling me this, I'd be laughing. Even then, I'd be hard pressed to hold back a chuckle or two if the ever-so-serious Min Doran or the scientific Amidatty had told me any of this.

He slumps down in the chair again, chin propped up on one hand. "Imagine the legends are true. All of them, Zin, meteors and miasma, the Lady of Dreams, all of those crazy bedtime stories your mother used to tell you. Kin told me something interesting awhile back. He told me that while all of the legends have some changes to them among the tribes, none of them contradict each other."

I have no idea what this means and tell him so.

"It's been at least a thousand years since the fall of Rebena Te Ra," Patrick says. "Kin told me that most scholars agree that the miasma came a short time before that. You'd think in a thousand years, with the settlements so distant and split, that the stories would have changed more, but they didn't. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"All right, so you think there's some truth to these stories. I can follow that to a point, all stories have some truth to them. But I think you're forgetting a key factor here."

Patrick waves his hand dismissively, so sure in his rightness.

"The Lilties," I tell him. "The Lilties ruled for a long time over a large area. Which means there was a unified area for the storytelling, at least for awhile. Everyone's legends would line up." That calls some of his reasoning into doubt.

He waves his hand again and I want to slap that stupid little curl off his forehead. "That's not the important part."

"Then spit it out already!" I hiss. If his idea of a discussion is talking about his ideas and ignoring mine, I'd rather be trying to sleep.

He looks at me then, suddenly so in the moment that I lean away from him. "Sorry," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Should've realized you weren't out here for curiosity's sake. Another nightmare?"

"Finish your thoughts," I tell him, much more kindly this time but still annoyed. He needs no second prompting.

"If the legends are true, then we could find the source of miasma. The _"star fell to the west, and the fog chased the morning sun."_ The meteor fell to the west of Rebena Te Ra. We need to explore past that." The words tumble from his lips and he leans forward, taking my hands in his. "There's a miasma stream beyond Rebena, that much we know. But no one has ever gone beyond that. We need to, even if all we get is new myrrh trees out of it."

I want to tell him that every single Yuke in Shella has already had this idea and discounted it for one reason or another. I want to tell him that a preacher from Tida already beat him to trying to find the source. Thinking of that village makes me sad, and so I tell him nothing more than, "All right, but only on a short year."

Knowing how badly we've offended Alfitaria, we won't have a nicely scheduled short year for a very long time. Patrick raises his eyebrows. "It's important, Zin."

"I know," I say. "But we've got to survive this year before we can worry about the future."

He shakes his head in a knowing way, but the arrogant dismissal is gone. "If we keep up that attitude, there won't be a future." He's right, but what can I do? Write the village off and go on some mad quest with nothing but a story to guide us?

"I just don't know, Patrick."

"Me either. If I did, well, we'd be off saving the world right now." That smile, that one right there, lifting the corners of his mouth--if he asked with that smile, maybe I'd turn the caravan toward the Jegon and try to save the world on his behalf. "Now, how about that dream of yours?" He reclaims my feet, fingers rubbing in small circles as I haltingly tell of the latest terror my mind has produced.

* * *

Once upon a time, in the heyday of the Lilty empire, Moschet's manor had been a monastery. When the empire was defeated and the army disbanded, most of the monks returned to their tribes. Those who didn't were soon overrun by the monsters. Years ago, the Moschets moved in, not realizing that the myrrh tree that had grown in the monks' place would draw caravans to them each year.

Though the monks had fought bravely, in time, only the architecture stood as a reminder of what once had been. Standing before the old wooden gates, the sun getting ready to set behind the horizon, I'm surprised to see that the wood has been carefully kept, the copper of the hinges and latch recently polished.

The latch has never been particularly difficult. A thin blade through the gap in the gate and a heft upward dislodges the bar that provides the main lock, some skilled chops at the wood removes the latch. Without Kindryth's hammer we'll be at a disadvantage to remove the latch, but Sinna and I have planned for this.

We check our equipment one last time, then I motion toward the gate. "Sinna, you know what to do."

She slides the chicken knife from the sheath on her belt, then moves to the gate. The blade slips through the space, then is lost to my sight. The tendons in her wrists strain as she works to lift the bar up and outward.

"Wait," Althea says, stepping forward with such an air of authority that Sinna backs off immediately, setting the bar down gently and retreating to where I look from Patrick to Lian Cre. Both of them are as confused as I am. Surely we didn't miss anything? Sentries, perhaps? I scan the area again and come up with nothing.

Althea steps up to the gate and at first I think she's got a different way to get around the latch problem. Then I realize, with horrible clarity, that she does. "No, don't--"

She raises her fist and knocks on the gate, three mild taps that sound like hammers on gongs. In a broiling mass of movement I dart forward to yank her back, Sinna and Patrick draw both swords and magicite, alert for the impending attack, and Alder lunges forward, hand colliding with the back of her head in a resounding slap. "Althea!" he shouts, and if they don't know we're here by now then Mr. Moschet deserves every incursion of caravans he gets.

Lian Cre is the only one who seems perfectly still, but with a racket in hand and her eyebrows drawn together, she is a giant knot of muscle. There's nothing for it, in a few moments the entire manor will be on us.

"Can we run for it?" I throw the question to the ranchers' children, who shake their heads in unison. It would take too long to hitch the papaopamus.

Tactically speaking, we're not necessarily in a bad place. Only so many monsters can come out of those gates at any given time, and if we make our stand there that might give us enough time. I'm about to make this order when a loud scrape fills the air, then the creaking slide of stiff metal. The bar has just been slid aside, the latch undone.

I sink into a crouch, ready to spring.

A tonberry opens the gate slightly and peers out. A single tonberry is easy enough, I'm about to move when Sinna claps hand on my shoulder, her grip as strong as it was on my neck all those months ago. She literally holds me in place while Althea gestures to the chalice in a sort of, "Well, what are you waiting for?" way.

The tonberry utters some odd sound, then shuts the gate. I glare daggers at Althea as Sinna hisses in my ear, "Don't do anything. We're not dead yet, let's see what happens."

She might have a hand on my shoulder but she'll have to drop her sword to clamp one over my mouth. "You idiot!" I say, unable to go knock her upside the head the way Alder did. "If you think we'll be able to get the myrrh now, you're dumber than I thought."

Althea is biting her lip when she turns her large brown eyes on me, but the confidence and determination that fill every line of her face stills me. I'm still looking at her when larger footsteps sound from behind the gate, accompanied by an odd shushing sound.

The gate creaks open once more, this time to it's full extent. In all his purple finery, Jack Moschet glares out, Mrs. Moschet peering at us from his right. Behind them range several tonberry servants and two catlike coeurls. Overhead two gargoyles hover, their stone wings flapping loudly in the still air.

"We are so dead," Alder mutters, and I couldn't have said it better myself.

* * *

What follows is something I tend to leave out of my usual stories. Don't give me that look, trust me, you've never heard this one before.

Why don't I tell it? Well, I tried once, but I was laughed out of the alehouse. Yes, your gran once went to alehouses.

Remember what I said earlier, about having faith in old tales? That might take some effort now.

* * *

"So my Ma was in the caravan, and when she'd come home she'd tell all these stories. A lot of 'em were made up, but my favorite was the one about Mr. Moschet," Althea says with a respectful nod to the lord of the manor. "She always sympathized with ye having yer home wrecked."

Moschet's lady is translating, her ability to understand both human and monster dialects keeping the conversation going. It was she who told Jack what we were there for, and she who told us that we were welcome to the myrrh and to supper.

The feast is sumptuous, spread out across the massive table. A roasted bird that I strongly suspect is a cockatrice forms the centerpiece, with dishes such as baked gourd potatoes drenched in butter and chopped star carrots surrounding it. Smaller dishes range outward from it, filled with steaming potpies of vegetables and rich gravy, salads of carefully preserved lettuce, fresh cabbage, carrots, and turnips, and puddings decked with fruit slices. I load my plate with a bit of everything but the gelatinous dessert, which has enough resemblance to a flan to make me wonder. To drink there is water, milk, and fruit juice.

"Wonder where they keep the cows?" Patrick whispers into my left ear as he pretends to fumble with his napkin. I shrug. This is all new to me.

As Moschet's lady says grace, I take the opportunity to look around the familiar surroundings. I have spilled blood in this beautiful dining room, I think, and decide not to mention it.

A glance across the table to where Lian Cre sits between Althea and Sinna shows that her expression is carefully blank. Sinna seems to be enjoying herself, asking the lady about the various decorations. Mrs. Moschet has puffed herself up, her eyelids crinkled with pleasure as she answers each question. I don't think Mr. Moschet has ever really wanted to hear about how she sewed the curtains with a special embroidery technique.

To my right Alder shows his single artifact to Mr. Moschet, who nods his head. Though the two don't say a word, I think warriors have a language all of their own, and the two seem to come to some arrangement. Althea continues her story as Patrick raises his eyebrows at me.

"She always wondered why nobody ever took the time to jus' ask for the myrrh, ye know?" Despite traveling with us for over three months now, Althea still has some of her highlander accent. "So when we got here and were getting ready, it occurred to me, why not knock and jus' ask?"

Mrs. Moschet relates the story to Mr. Moschet, who lets out a loud, rhythmic barking sound that I finally realize is _laughter_. He reaches over to the Lilty and pats her gently on the head, his massive hand covering her sprout and touching both her shoulders with ease.

He says something to the missus, who in turn tells us. "You are always welcome here, caravan of Tipa. Particularly you, little one."

When none of us can take another bite, Mr. Moschet declares supper officially over, rising and gesturing for us to follow him. We walk to the myrrh tree together, where Lian Cre places the chalice beneath the bent branches. The six of us are not the only ones watching in awe as the sacred substance lands smoothly in our chalice.

"I've never seen that before," his wife remarks, and on the way back I finally muster the courage to speak to her.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, thinking of not only all the times I've personally invaded her house, but all the other caravans as well. I also recall thinking her cruel when she would mistake us for her servants and shout at us, not realizing that it wasn't a group of tonberries behind her. Watching her talk to Sinna, now I think that maybe she was just tired and lonely.

She looks at me, this lamia who is taller than any I have seen, and smiles. It's mildly disturbing even though I know it's supposed to be a friendly gesture. "We understand," she says. "And besides, Jack adores a good fight. It's the highlight of his year."

I'll keep that in mind. "What's your name?" I ask her, realizing that I've only ever known this creature as Mrs. Moschet. It feels odd to care, but no stranger than eating at their table and exchanging pleasantries.

"Evangeline," she tells me, and I silently vow to write that down, so that none of us ever forget her name.

* * *

We make one last stop before bidding the Moschets farewell. Jack lets us in to his armory, where he gestures to the piles of trinkets laying about. Alder translates this time. "We're allowed to pick one," he announces, and if this night gets any stranger then I will have to pinch myself.

There are artifacts galore: Flametongues, rune staffs, chocobo pockets, some orichalcum, even a few moon pendants. Along the wall hang scrolls with designs for newer, better weapons. Crafting materials line the shelves of the northern wall but my eye is set on an incredibly rare Gekkabijin.

One by one we make our choices, then say our goodbyes. The Moschets wave to us as our wagon trundles away, their shapes soon disappearing into the night.

"You know," Lian Cre speaks for the first time that night, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips, as we all lounge around in the wagon, Sinna listening in from the driver's box, "I would love to tell someone about all this, but I do not think anyone would believe it."

* * *

Sinna waits until we are finally settled in at The Crossed Blades inn before she confronts me. I know exactly what she's thinking, but let her stand at the doorway to my room, trying to find the words.

"Don't do it," she says at last, and her succinctness is the only surprise.

"She ignored orders," I tell her. Everyone in the caravan but Althea knows I don't want her there.

The Clavat shakes her head, long brown hair swaying gently behind her back. "So she went about it the wrong way. Zin Del, it was the right thing to do. We need fresh ideas."

"We need good caravanners."

She grimaces, an odd look on her normally peaceful face, then stalks over to the bed, smoothing out the covers before seating herself. In a move that is so typically her, she folds her hands in her lap and bites her lip delicately. "We're running out of those, and you well know it."

She's right, curse it. In a few years the three of us senior members are set to give up the caravanning life, and what then? Who will lead them? Of course, it's all very well and good to claim we need every member possible, but a caravanner who disobeys orders can be just as risky to a town as a group with very few members.

"So I should congratulate her on her recklessness and keep her around for more of it?" I ask, unable to keep from rolling my eyes in annoyance. "You're right, Sinna, she was right in what she did this time. But what about next time? And the time after that? She can't rely on stories, luck, and sheer gall forever."

She looks up at my face, calm brown eyes evaluating me and finding me wanting in a way that makes me want to storm out to the practice yard and brawl with someone. "I'll speak with her. She won't do it again."

"But you can't guarantee that, can you?"

With one last look that I can only describe as motherly disappointment, Sinna shakes her head and rises from her seat. "If those were your real reasons, maybe I would agree with them. But you and I both know you're only doing this because you were wrong and now your pride is wounded. And now that I've said that, are you going to ask me to leave too?"

Point made, the door closes behind her with a soft, punctuating click before I can make an angry and stupid retort. I'm tempted to follow her, continue the fight, but then my eyes light on my racket, gloves, and boots. Beating a complete stranger out in the practice yard seems like a much better idea.

Complete strangers don't know how to pick at your personal flaws. Usually.

* * *

We are in the blue sphere again, but something is different. There are others present this time, a Clavat in a long cream colored coat and a Lilty in black armor. Something about them shakes my soporific mind--do I know them?--before the girl in white appears beside me.

_"It was not that they were weak," _her voice echoes around the chamber, _"It was that they looked only to the future."_

I turn to look at her, a question on my lips, but she flutters about the room anxiously. The two below do not notice her, despite her hovering before them. A gleaming hand touches the Clavat's face, then takes the Lilty's gauntleted hand. _'Such poor boys,"_ she says simply. _"My poor, broken boys."_

She returns to me. _"This is the beginning of the end,"_ she says, and the world shatters.

* * *

I open my eyes to a sight so beautiful my mind could never have invented it alone. Above me rests the night's blanket of stars, a thousand times clearer and brighter and somehow closer, though I cannot fathom how until I glance down.

Below me is a planet, _my_ planet I realize, heart pounding in my chest. The ocean is so vast, so endless, and there--land! I can see the dots of light: crystals? myrrh trees? A glow to the east could be Alfitaria.

And though I am literally walking on clouds and air, all I can think is that the planet really is round, and how I'll have to tell Kin about this.

With a small pop the glowing lady appears beside me. I open my mouth to speak when another sight robs me of breath. Before us, a monster has appeared.

At first sight I think it's a bird, but another take reveals its mechanical attributes: the joints too jointed, the gleam of metal, the inorganic stiffness of its movement. Even its size is wrong. No natural bird that large could fly with only that much of a wingspan. Whatever behemoth this is, it is not of my world.

Realizing this fills me with fear. Why has the lady brought me here? She was never waiting for _me_, right?

Her light hand on my shoulder turns me first to face her brilliance, then to look behind me.

_"You must _see_," _she says.

Behind us there is a spark of light in the distance, and then one by one they approach. A foppish Yuke in a bright red, blue, and yellow tabard leads the way, chalice in his arms. A ring for each type of magicite adorns his fingers, a sign of mastery. Behind him walks a lovely Selkie woman, her face lined and thin, her eyes hard as diamonds. To the woman's right is another girl, a Clavat. She carries a claymore and a shield. I have never seen a more determined face.

Last comes a Lilty, sexless beneath a suit of armor. The Lilty carries a halberd, and tied beneath the axe blade is a red bandana and a polka dot ribbon. It is the sight of that ribbon that jars me.

"Althea?" I ask, staring at the group in confusion. I look again, recognizing the features of another. "Lian Cre?"

An unearthly screech fills the air and the group shifts, each drawing a weapon. Althea raises her halberd and mockingly salutes the beast before charging. Lian Cre darts forward in her wake, racket at the ready. She runs by me and I'm reaching out to touch her arm right as I open my eyes.

Though some of the dream dissipates the instant I blink against the sunlight streaming through the window, I review what I can, desperate to remember. With that terrible foe in mind, two thoughts occur to me. I can't leave Althea behind, no matter how obnoxious she gets, and I have to find the Yuke that invents that thing, and kill him.

* * *

It doesn't occur to me until later to wonder where Patrick, Sinna, Alder, and I were, and to wonder what becomes of us.

It does occur to me to wonder if I'm dreaming of anything but the future, and to wonder why I, the least mystical person I know, am the one dreaming these things.

* * *

Alder heaves the last pack of supplies over the tailgate and into the wagon, Patrick taking them from there and storing them where he can.

We're not as heavily loaded as we will be after we stop by Marr's Pass for the second time this year. Then we'll have to purchase supplies to last us through both the ferry ride, Leuda, Lynari, and another ferry ride. Lian Cre and I could strike a bargain in Leuda, but the island nation's prices are lawful theft. Better to purchase at the Pass and the Fields of Fum before we go.

"Ready when you are, Captain-commander-oh-wise-and-lovely-leader-ma'am!" Patrick says, leaping down from the wagon with a laugh. He's never been all that fond of the city, and though we've only had a short rest here he takes the reins with a smile, ruffling his sister's hair before clambering onto the driver's box.

"Where's your cousin?" I ask Alder, who is the only sprout_--Lilty--_in attendance.

He shrugs, the normal gesture comical on his smaller shoulders. I know it's deceptive, I know he could probably lift me on those shoulders if he so chose, but I still have to hide the smile. "She knew you didn't want her back," he says, and if the twinge of guilt isn't enough Sinna looks at me like I just kicked our papaopamus.

"Well, go and get her," I tell him, and the gloomy look he's been wearing all day disappears, replaced with a grin. "She doesn't get to leave this caravan without my say-so."

He trots off, those blue eyes bright again, and I sigh despite Sinna's blatantly approving smile. She looks like a proud parent, I just look tired. In order to keep my stern leader persona going, I shout to the retreating Lilty, "Hurry up! Tipa's caravan waits for no man!"

Her smile doesn't diminish in the slightest. Judging by Lian Cre's sympathetic pat to my shoulder, I think they've all realized I've gone soft.

I could leave both the Lilties behind now and prove my toughness once and for all, but I think I'll wait until we make camp tonight. A few hours of evening training will show them who's gone soft around here, and considering how many fellow fighters I trounced at the inn after that little chat, it sure isn't me.

* * *

It was the best decision I could have made, choosing to trust Sinna's instincts, choosing to trust my dreams, choosing to trust Alder and Althea. In that moment I put what little faith I had into my caravan, and that faith would carry me through the next few years.

Had I known then what would become of us, well, maybe I would have done things differently.

Only my faith that I had done right, all those years ago, keeps some of the guilt at bay.


	13. The Fifth Lesson

_A few notes. I made two references to The Trinity Tree's incredibly lovable character Larkin from Little Farm of Horrors. If you've read it, you'll know what they are._

_This lesson is very short and a bit silly, but I still had fun writing it. SRS BIZZNESS Softly Say Goodbye will resume next chapter._

* * *

Family is more than blood, you know. A caravan is a family, just as much as a house full of relatives is. Maybe even more so-but that is because they have to be.

Often times it's better to start all over with a new caravan than to take on new recruits. Yes, an older caravan has experience, but they're also already a family. How would you feel if some stranger butted in and tried to claim they were a sibling, eh? It's hard not to resent an intrusion.

Some families are incredibly welcoming, like the Marr's Pass Lilties. I've never met a caravan more accepting, provided you could throw a lance and swig an ale with the rest of them. Some, like Shella's Yukes, were difficult to get to know, mysteries embodied. But then again, maybe they, too, were welcoming in their own ways.

We tried with Alder and Althea, but some things take time. Some people just don't belong. Some people don't want to. And some require just that little nudge to open up.

* * *

**The Fifth Lesson**

**Family**

**

* * *

**

Letters Received at Goblin Wall:

Dear Zin,

I know you've only been gone for a fortnight at most, but your mother wishes to remind you to take care of yourself. Apparently this year's remaining seasons will be much harsher than usual. She says to wear your coat, or steal one of the twins'.

**I said no such thing, Pou, and you will stop saying so. Paper is scanty enough without you filling it with your lies.**

(A few scribbles fill the page, as if a fight had taken place over the quill pen.)

Anyway, I forgot to ask while you were home, but would you mind sending back any extra silver you may find this year? I have a few ideas I'd like to work on.

**Always thinking of his work. But you know your father. Be careful, sweetheart, and do wear a coat of some sort. Perhaps that handsome man of yours will lend you his?**

Enough of your machinations, woman. Zin, do be safe. Your sisters say hello.

All our love,

Father, **Mother and the rest

* * *

**

_Dear Alder and Althea,_

_How have things been so far? Not giving anyone too much trouble, are you? The forge is fine, I'm fine, nothing to worry about here._

_Be good. _Behave.

_Your loving Pa-Uncle

* * *

_

Patty and Sinny,

How are you? Ma says to tell you that we're well and the ranch is fine. I've been working on my writing, and even Aldessa is pleased. She still tells me I'm hopp...hopl...hopeless at maths, though.

Bessie dropped her calf a few days ago, and Pa told me I could name it since I helped! I decided to call her Brownie. You can meet her when you come back next year. Pa says she'll be a lot bigger then.

Ma says to take care. Pa says to keep your swords sharp.

Love you both,

Jory

These are the only letters that appear.

* * *

Letters received at Alfitaria (rather than Moschet's Manor):

**Dear Zin,**

**Your father, man-child that he is, managed to blow up half the house in his latest experiment. So now not only are we crammed into only two rooms, but he burned his hands as well, so your sisters and I are doing all the repairs. Thank the gods that Alder and Althea's father is an incredibly generous man. He's been helping us as much as he can. Hope you're doing well, sweetheart.**

T H A N K S F O R T H E S I L V E R. M Y C A L C U L A T I O N S W E R E O F F.

**As you can see, your father is too stubborn to just let his hands rest. He says for you to be careful. Sia and Yis say hello.**

**All our love,**

**Mother, **F A T H E R, **and the rest

* * *

**

_Dear Alder and Althea,_

_You put _what_ in Zin Del's bedroll? Shame on you both! Your ma would be heartbroken to hear what you did to a caravanner, Alder! And Althea, what were you thinking, girl? This is exactly the kind of thing that got you thrown out of your parents' house. Really, I'd think you'd want to _stay_ on your leader's good side!_

_I'm glad she's teaching you both something, at least. I'd have walloped you both, myself._

_Be _better_ than good._

_Your loving Pa-Uncle

* * *

_

Patty and Sinny,

Thank you for my press...prezz...present. I really like it! Ma doesn't though. She told Pa a knife was too dangerous. Pa agreed, but told me later he would teach me how to use it anyway. Now I can keep the village safe too!

Brownie is a little bigger. She likes to lick my head and try to chew on my hair when I go near her. She slob...slub...slobbers a lot. Ma says she is cute. Pa says she will grow up big and strong.

Ranch is fine. We are all fine. Come home soon!

Love,

Jory

These are the only letters that appear.

* * *

One night, just after the miasma stream between Alfitaria and Marr's Pass, I purposefully arrange things so that Lian Cre has to dig the latrine. As she is off walking around in the nearby bushes, trying to find a suitable spot, I motion silently for the others to join me behind the caravan.

Without preamble, I ask, "Anyone else noticed that Lian Cre hasn't gotten a single letter from home?"

To my surprise, only Sinna and Althea nod right away. Patrick looks thoughtful, as if trying to remember, and Alder simply looks guilty. Poor boy. I ruffle his sprout lightly, and turn back to the group. "I propose an idea. Why don't we write to her, next time the mail moogle shows up? If we post them in Marr's Pass, she'll get them at the Jegon. I can always hold us up at Marr's Pass for an extra day to make sure they get there in time."

Patrick nods. "I guess I just never thought about it. She was always busy with something; picking an artifact, getting the myrrh, checking her gear. But still, just because she has no family in Tipa doesn't make it all right for her to not get any letters."

Listening carefully, I can still hear her stomping around in the brush. "All right, so we'll all write a few extra letters to post at the pass then. Back to camp, everyone, and act natural."

"Wait!" It's Althea, her scratchy voice kept low. "Why don't we have our families write to her, too? A caravan's supposed t' be a family, right? So if we're her siblings, wouldn't they be her parents?"

Her cousin stepped up to that. "We can also have them ask around the village to get even more letters. And if we see any caravans on the road, ask them to write too. I mean, we're all in this together, aren't we?"

As we all agreed to that, I realized then and there that I'd never needed to make an effort to include Alder and Althea in our little family. They'd been a part of it, in some way, for as long as we'd been caravanners. They were just closer now.

* * *

Min Doran is delighted to see I've picked up two Lilties since last time we crossed paths. He congratulates me in private, and asks after Kindryth. Word travels fast between caravans, especially when it comes to something as important as leadership.

"He's alive," I say shortly. "Not good, not bad. The miasma poisoning is eating him from inside, starting from his lungs." It's important to spread information. "Too much miasma exposure that he survived, I guess."

Min is understandably confused. He knocks his spear butt against the ground. "How did such a terrible thing occur?"

"He got caught outside the chalice, but close enough to a myrrh tree that it wasn't affecting him as much, or so we thought," I explain. A myrrh tree has the same general effect as a crystal, though its range is much less. To be on the fringes of it would probably give the same effect standing near Tida's dying crystal did. I don't want to lie, not when someone's life may depend upon it, but my caravan depends on this falsehood.

"I see. So we must keep to the chalice, as always." Min understands. This news makes little difference, other than to caution the others to stay close to the myrrh tree after reaching it. "I would send my regards to Kindryth with you, and take yours to him, should I speak with him first."

"I appreciate that. And on that note," I make our caravan's request to him. He quickly agrees, given that they see a mail moogle.

Conference over, we move from behind his caravan. Althea looks over at me from where she stands with Min's second, Sol Racht, and winks. Ah, Lilties. Always suckers for a strong woman.

* * *

The blond Selkie man, Dah something, smiles. "Lian Cre, huh?" he asks, and contemplates the bored woman staring off at the horizon.

His partner, a girl with a silver mane, frowns in response to his cheerful expression. "Why should we be wasting our paper on one of yours?" she asks, and rightfully so. They're new caravanners, with not much experience nor gil. Besides, Selkies always drive a hard bargain.

"Well, she's from the isle," I say, slipping a bit into the Leuda way of speaking. "Moved to Tipa a few years back. Thought maybe you knew her, is all."

"I'd like to," Dah-something says plaintively, and the silvery Hana Kohl casts me a desperate look. She opens her mouth and I cut her off.

"More 'n likely she's a cousin of yours or something," I continue, acting as if I never heard him say anything. "She could be your auntie."

She smiles at Dah-something's newly crestfallen expression. "We'll write," she promises, and drags her erstwhile partner away from the road.

* * *

The innkeeper at Marr's Pass agrees, as do his children. The Selkie merchants promise to think about it. I avoid the ladies' man and ask the blacksmith's daughter instead. She is delighted to help.

We post our letters and I make my excuses. We spend a week in Marr's Pass. Hopefully something will show up at the Jegon.

Lian Cre senses something is going on, but other than a few suspicious looks she says nothing about our mass exodus to the post office. Probably doesn't want us to realize she never goes there herself.

Well, Lian Cre, dearie, the post is coming to you.

* * *

The Jegon River is blue and serene as always. A slight rushing sound fills the air as we draw close, and our papaopamus's ears prick up as he lifts his head to sniff the air.

"Can he swim?" Althea asks Patrick. She and I are walking close to where he sits on the driver's box. Her excitement is nearly palpable. I'm starting to wonder just what she convinced those Lilties to do.

"I'm sure he could ford a river," Patrick says after a moment of consideration, "But no, I've never seen any of them swim. We should definitely find out though," his grin is wicked with mischief. "All right, everyone," he calls, "We're going to save some money and let Blue here pull us across the river!"

"What?" Sinna yelps, and as we round a bend suddenly the river is in view a distance away.

"Here we go!" Patrick shouts, and urges Blue to speed up a bit. The papaopamus grunts and heaves forward, the wagon bouncing over a bump behind him. Althea and I begin to run to keep up, laughing so hard we can barely manage more than a jog.

"Patrick, stop that this instant!" Sinna yells, then shrieks at something.

"Hold on!" he belatedly calls back, then looks down at us. "You two better speed up," he comments mildly as the caravan begins to pull away from us.

"Patrick!" Sinna yells.

"Patrick!" Althea protests.

"Patrick!" I shout. If he leaves us without chalice protection, oh, I will beat him with my racket.

Then we cross an invisible line in the ground, and the air is pure and sweet and smells faintly of water. I stop running immediately, with Althea slowing shortly after. "We're safe," I tell her, and she nods. We walk sedately to the dock, where Patrick is already chatting with the ferryman.

"I just like having three ladies call my name," he is explaining as we approach, carefully ignoring Sinna's glare. I give him even less directions to look at by adding my glare, as does Althea after examining our faces and finding a new position. Alder is carefully unhitching Blue, doing a poor job of muffling his laughter. Lian Cre doesn't bother to hide, leaning against the caravan with a wide smile on her face.

Oh, we'll see who's smiling in a few minutes.

"T' be honest, I'm right glad you're here," the ferryman confesses. His normally shrewd business face is gone, replaced by simple astonishment. "I'm starting to wonder if'n my boat here can hold all them letters and your caravan."

"Letters?" Althea is the portrait of innocence. "There's letters for us?"

As the ferryman offers to show us, I hear a slight sigh. Lian Cre slowly makes her way to the back of the wagon, making a show of rummaging through her pack. I'd call her over, but the others would never forgive me for spoiling the fun. We wait.

"Lessee, here, got one for Zin Del," the ferryman says. "One for Patrick and Sinna. One for Althea and Alder," he pauses as we accept our individual letters and seat ourselves on the dock. "Do ye know of a caravanner by the name of Lian Cre?"

Beautiful even with her eyebrows furrowed, Lian Cre peers around the back of the wagon. "My name is Lian Cre," she offers. Clearly puzzled, she wanders over to where we stand. "Why?"

Alder can barely contain himself, grinning from ear to ear. Sinna places a warning hand on his shoulder and we all don our most innocent expressions.

"Why, I think there's about twenty letters for ye back here!" the ferryman exclaims, reaching behind him to remove a small sack. He tosses the brown burlap at Lian Cre, who barely catches it. Something clanks, and now I'm really wondering what Althea convinced those Lilties to send. She looks bemused, as if fully expecting a mistake of some sort. She looks to us, but we've practiced looking carefully in other directions on the way here.

Nonchalantly I open my own letter, ripping the already tattered envelope to shreds in my incompetence. It's my mother and father, their usual banter skittering across the page and reminding me of home. I don't read it closely-there will be time for that later. Right now I want to watch Lian Cre.

She reaches blindly into the sack and pulls out the first letter. I recognize the markings as those of the Marr's Pass post office. Probably the innkeeper then. Her lips curl upward into a small smile as she reads through whatever message he has to offer her. Still bemused, she gently sets the opened letter to her side, tucking a corner under her thigh so that it can't blow away.

A few more letters with the Marr's Pass stamp, then some with Tipa's. I recognize my father's painstakingly blocky hand and my mother's thick lines, the familiar drawn on lines of Sinna's and Patrick's brother practicing his handwriting. I even notice the curled, loopy handwriting that appears on Alder and Althea's letters.

Giving up the pretense of reading our own letters, we watch with delight as Lian Cre opens letter after letter. She reads each one closely, then places it next to her. Each letter seems to change her expression slightly-more of a smile here, a crinkling of eyelid there. After one letter she raises her eyebrows, and I think, Dah-something and Hana Kohl. After another she shakes her head and smiles and I think, Min Doran's caravan. The next her hand unwittingly rises to cover her mouth and a pang in my heart tells me it's from Kin.

The last one is, of course, ours. Her facial expression contorts for a moment, then smoothes into blankness once more.

There are twenty-three letters and a very odd metal ball, all told. The ferryman has already made his way into his cabin by the time she finishes the last one. For a long moment we all sit in silence on the warm, rough, wooden planks. Our feet dangle down to the water below, covering the spectrum of Patrick just barely dipping his toes to Alder's short legs jutting straight out. Lian Cre stares at the splintered area beside her letters for a long time.

"Thank you," she says at last, voice oddly hoarse. "You didn't have to do that for me."

"We wanted to-" Sinna says, at the same time as Althea, who says, "You're family-"

"Both are true," Patrick finishes for the both of them, smiling at her. "You're one of us, and if there's one thing Tipa's caravan won't abide by, it's not getting any letters."

Alder looks up in feigned shock. "I thought it was not getting any myrrh."

"No, we're actually in this for the letters, accolades, and pretty Selkie boys flirting with us when we go home for the rejuvenation ceremony," I tell him seriously. "Well, if you like that sort of thing."

"Pretty Selkie boys?" Patrick demands, leaning on my left shoulder. "Why haven't I ever gotten any of those? You been hogging them, Zin?"

Lian Cre looks up at last. Her eyes are slightly red rimmed and maybe a little watery. That's perfectly normal. There's a lot of water around rivers, right? "I think I might be the guilty party here when it comes to taking the pretty Selkie boys," she says, and laughs.

* * *

I had never heard Lian Cre laugh before that moment. None of us had. To this day, I think she even surprised herself. But that's the wonder of family. They bring out the best and worst in you, often all in one day.

At that moment, we were so close. I thought that together, nothing could break us.


End file.
